


Runaway

by campsearchlight



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Sex, F/M, Fluff, Kind of a slow burn, follows railroad quest line, occasional canon divergence, relationships, some cute shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:33:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6403273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campsearchlight/pseuds/campsearchlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bug works for Mayor Hancock as a member of the Neighborhood Watch, making sure the residents of Goodneighbor are safe. Incidentally, this is extremely boring. </p><p>When two strangers roll into town–a shady mercenary and, shortly after, a vault dweller–she's pulled into a quest the likes of which she never would have dreamed.</p><p>(Currently on hiatus.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As usual, I'm hanging out by the entrance gate to Goodneighbor. This is my normal guard position, but I'm off today. I'm only here because there's really nothing else to do in this town. I mean, there's the Third Rail–the bar down in the old subway station–but I'm not in the mood or have enough caps–to drink, and I've heard every single one of Magnolia's songs at least a hundred times each. After a while, they start to grate on you. To top it all off, Whitechapel Charlie is being an ass... as usual. 

The only interesting thing going on is that a drifter rolled in a week ago. A guy in a long, brown coat and an olive drab military-style hat, like the kind they used to wear in the olden days. He carried with him the meanest sniper rifle I've ever seen. I'd go talk to him if I wasn't scared he'd put a bullet between my eyes. Then, to make it even saucier, a day later, a couple more drifters came through. After questioning a few of the settlers, they headed over to the Third Rail. Only ten minutes later, they left.

A few days after all that, the goddamn Brotherhood of Steel showed up in a big-ass blimp, spotlights roaming the ground, proclaiming that they're here to help the Commonwealth. 

And, I say that's a load of bullshit. I hope they don't come to Goodneighbor. 

Besides the Brotherhood, the stranger is intriguing, with his weird hat and scary-looking vagrant friends. Maybe I'll stop by later on. Say hello. Unofficially welcome him to Goodneighbor–since he already got the official welcome from Mayor Hancock himself.

I sit on the wall for a while, looking up at the sky. From here, I can just barely hear the radio that is perpetually tuned to Diamond City Radio. One of my favorites plays.

" _In olden days a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking. But, now, God knows... Anything goes..._ " 

I listen to the radio for a while, my back pressed against the useless lantern ornament stuck into the top of the wall. In the bright hour of noon, yet another drifter comes through the gate. This time, instead of a cute guy or a pair of creepy guys, a pretty woman in a bright blue, brand-new vault suit waltzes in. Along with the suit and the look of wonderment on her face, I can tell she's a vault dweller. Unmistakable. Her blond hair is pulled into a messy bun on the back of her head. On her wrist sits a relic: a brand-spanking-new Pip-Boy. At her heel is a dog unlike any other I've seen in the Commonwealth. Now, I've seen rabid mongrels, harmless mutts, even mutated dogs that look like skin wrapped around a skeleton. The one who is this woman's companion cannot be a purebred German shepherd. This woman is all kinds of odd.

  
She looks around, getting her bearings. She spots me almost right away, sitting on the low wall in front of the gate, and I immediately avert my eyes. I hope she doesn't think I'm some mannerless bumpkin because I was staring at her. 

"Hey," she says, coming closer. 

I glance up at the sky, heart pumping in my chest. She's going to knock me out. I know she is. I look at her, cracking an embarrassed smile. "Hi."

"What's your name?" she asks. 

"Bug," I reply, wary. 

She stares at me for a moment too long. "Well, hi, Bug. This is Goodneighbor, right?"

"Uh, yes." Didn't she see the bright-ass neon sign on the way in? 

"And, the Memory Den is...?"

"Look, lady. A tour's gonna cost ya some bubblegum." Boy, if Hancock knew I was extorting this poor vault dweller, he'd make me clean his toilet for a month. 

She narrows her eyes at me, then a slow grin splits her face. She digs into her pocket and tosses me an unopened pack of gum. "Are you my tour guide?"

"Sure am." I hop down from my perch and lead her to the shops. "These are the shops. Kleo's shop, Kill or Be Killed, sells weapons and ammo, and Daisy's Discounts sells–well, Daisy sells just about everything else." I take the vault dweller through the alley, and we pass by the Old State House. "This is the Old State House. Mayor Hancock lives here with about twenty personal guards." We turn a corner, and here's where the most people hang out. Loitering against buildings or cooking over the fire pits on the back end of the square. "The Memory Den's right there," I say, pointing at the unmissable red neon sign. "There's also the Third Rail over there–a bar. And, Hotel Rexford is right next to the Den. Questions?"

"Just one," she says, taking in the sights. "You ever heard of Vault One-Eleven?"

I squint at her. What a strange question. "Yeah. People say it's haunted. Other people talk about the Sole Survivor. Y'know. The only person whose stasis pod didn't fuck up. But, that's just a myth."

"A myth, right. Just curious. Thanks for the tour, kid." She walks past me, heading for the Memory Den. Underneath the hunting rifle strapped across her back, I see the bright yellow numbers on the back of her suit: 111. 

"What the fuck?" I whisper to myself. As soon as she's in the building, I bolt back to the Old State House and tear into it without knocking. Hancock's guards ignore me as I run up the stairs. They're used to my barging in unannounced.

I see Fahrenheit, Hancock's head bodyguard first. She lounges on the couch, picking at her nails with a combat knife. She starts when I come in but settles back into her position when she sees that it's me. 

The ghoul sits at his desk, dressed in his usual red frock coat and tricorn hat. An unlit cigarette sits between the first two fingers of his right hand. He holds a flip lighter in the other. "Bug? What's going on? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Because I think I just did," I say, striding over to stand before his desk. 

"What're you talking about?" His tone becomes stern. "You didn't dig into my stash of jet, did you?"

"What? No!" I brace my hands on the desktop. "You know those stories going around about Vault One-Eleven?"

"That it's haunted?" he says with a scoff. He clicks the lighter, a tiny flame popping to life. He lights the cigarette and takes a long drag before continuing. "That's just talk, Bug. You know as well as I do that there isn't such a thing as ghosts."

"But, there is such a thing as ghouls."

He barks out a laugh. "Alright, kiddo. What's the deal?"

"The Sole Survivor is real. I swear, I just saw her. She's in the Memory Den right now."

Hancock stands, the cigarette dangling from his thin bottom lip. "You don't say."

"I say."

"Well, let's mosey on over and have a look-see, shall we?" He moves toward the door with me right behind him. Fahrenheit makes to stand, but Hancock waves her back down. "Keep your shirt on. I'll be alright."

She stares hard at him, then nods once. "Just be careful."

"Will do." Hancock leads the way downstairs.

Out on the street, I accidentally run right into someone. A pair of strong hands steadies me, and I look up out of instinct.

From the shade under the brim of the man's fedora, a pair of yellow eyes glow bright.

"Synth, huh?" Hancock asks, looking the trench-coated man up and down. Upon closer inspection, I notice his grayish skin is missing in some places, revealing a network of tubes and wires.

"Yes, sir. I am indeed," the synth says. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"None at all. Goodneighbor is of the people, for the people. And I mean any kind of people, my friend. I can promise you that. But, please. Allow me to officially welcome you to Goodneighbor." He offers his right hand to the synth. "Mayor Hancock."  
The artificial skin of his right hand is missing completely. His spindly, metal fingers grasp Hancock's gnarled ones. "Well, thank you. It's a fine town you have here, Mayor. I'm Nick Valentine."

"Ah. The famous Diamond City detective. I should've known better. My apologies. Anything I can help you with?"

"No, no, thank you. I'm just on my way to the Memory Den."

"What a coincidence," I say. "I just sent–"

Hancock cuts me off with a smack on the shoulder. "Now, now, Buggy. Let the gentleman go on."

Nick Valentine tips his hat at us, then continues on his way.

Once the synth disappears into the Memory Den, I tilt my head back to glare at Hancock. "What was that for?"

"You nincompoop. They're obviously in cahoots."

"Nincompoop? Cahoots? What year _were_ you born in, old man?"

He ignores that completely. "If that stranger is who you say she is, and Nick Valentine–of all people–is coming to meet her at the Memory Den–of all places... something strange indeed is going down."

"So, why couldn't I tell him about the woman?"

"I... Shut up." He punctuates by whacking me on the shoulder again.

I dance back a few steps before he can hit me again. "Hey, knock it off, grandpa."

"Enough with the name-calling, alright? Jeez."

"Don't you mean something like 'golly gee wilickers'? Or, 'criminy'?"

"I oughta knock you out, kid."

"If you can catch me first." With that, I run away, weaving through the back alleys until I make a complete circle back to

where we stood in front of the Old State House. By then, Hancock has gone back to his office, where he glares down at me through a window. Like the mature adult I am, I stick my tongue out at him. He drops the moth-eaten curtains, obscuring his face.

No matter how much he hates me, he's got to admit it: He loves me like the daughter he never had.

I look back toward the entrance gate, wondering if maybe I should take up my position again. Then, I figure I might as well just bite the bullet and introduce myself to the cute homeless guy. 

I hop down the steps to the subway and yank open the rusty door. I'm greeted by the sound of Magnolia's voice and the tuxedo-clad bouncer, a ghoul called Ham. He welcomes me with a sharp nod. I give him a little smile before going down even more steps. Though he's a man of very few words, I really like him for some reason. 

Successfully navigating the crowded tables, I sidle up to the bar, where the foul-mouthed Mr. Handy, Whitechapel Charlie, serves his patrons. To my left, Magnolia, barely covered up in a red-sequined cocktail dress, croons into a microphone. 

"Hey, Charlie," I say, leaning on the bar. 

The robot focuses his camera-lens eyes on me. "And, what do _you_ want?"

"The guy who came to town a few days ago. The one in the green hat. Is he here?"

"Ah, yes. That one. Should be in the VIP room."

"One more thing," I say. "Do you know anything about him?" I want to know exactly what I'm getting into when I go in there, though I already have an inkling. 

"Seems to be a mercenary. Now, are you going to order something, or are you going to just clutter up my bar all day?"

"Thanks, Charlie." I move deeper into the bar. The back room–the so-called "VIP room"–is unguarded, which makes me question why it's called the VIP room in the first place. 

I stop just outside the threshold and peer into the room.

It isn't much different than the main seating area of the bar, really. A few tables and chairs. The only real differences are that there are a few wingback chairs and couches situated into intimate clusters and that the furniture is in slightly better condition.

The man sits in one of the wingback chairs. His rifle stands alone against the wall next to him. He has a cigarette in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. Ah, these must be his vices. Much less worse than Hancock's, though.

This close, I notice the left sleeve of his coat is missing, revealing the green sleeve of his shirt underneath. Strapped to his right thigh is a small satchel. Strapped to his left thigh are two lines of bullets. A pair of a binoculars is tied to his belt. Two bullets are bound to the left side of his hat by a length of green fabric.

I step into the room, and he looks up from whatever he was staring at. He sits up a little straighter.

"Hi," I say, "I'm Bug."

He raises an eyebrow at me. "MacCready. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

We stare at each other for an awkward moment before he takes a long drag on his cigarette. A cloud of smoke covers his face when he exhales, but it quickly dissipates. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Oh, right. I just wanted to, um, welcome you to Goodneighbor, is all. So, welcome."

"Oh. I've already been welcomed by the mayor, but... thanks, I guess. Is that all?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess."

"Alright." He slumps back down, going back to staring into space.

"Are you okay?" I ask, a little worried.

He nods, and that's it. Disappointing, to say the least. I leave him to his beer and his thoughts.

* * *

  
Hancock is a fucking stalker. I can clearly see him staring out of his window at the Memory Den, and I know he's waiting for the Vault 111 ghost to come out with Nick. And, well, I'm a fucking stalker, too, because I'm staring at Hancock just as hard as he's staring at that door. 

Eventually, something flickers in the corner of my vision–the ghost, Nick Valentine, and the dog coming out of the building–and it draws my eye to them. They stand together on the sidewalk, and Nick is talking to a goddamn ghost. Oh, my goodness, he really is. I can't believe it. 

I look back up at Hancock's window, but he's disappeared–only to reappear as he exits his house. He strides over to the ghost and Nick, stopping short a few yards away. I hustle over, giving in to my nosiness. 

I've never seen Hancock so... struck. It's like he's–well, it's like he's seen a ghost.

"H... hi," he rasps, giving a pathetic little wave.

The ghost of Vault 111 looks at him, her eyebrows up. Nick watches without saying a word. I stare at Hancock dumbly, my mouth hanging open. All his usual confidence and swagger just went _whoosh_ right out the door.

"Hello," she says. "I'm assuming you're Mayor Hancock...?"

Hancock composes himself in a flash, and then he's all mayoral again. "Yes, I am. Good to meet you. Welcome to Goodneighbor." He holds out his hand to her. 

She takes it. "Thank you." Her eyes graze over me, and she drops me a wink. 

I'm paralyzed with what I think might be fear or nausea or a horrific combination of both. 

Hancock notices the wink. Of course he does. Nothing ever gets past him. "What was that?"

"Hm?" The ghost feigns ignorance. I think I like her. 

He narrows his eyes at her, then at me, then back at her, then at the dog. "Alright. Well... bye." He turns an about-face and heads for his house.

"Hold on a second!" the ghost calls out after him. 

He turns back again.

"Don't you want to know my name?"

"Oh, my, yes. How rude of me." He comes back, transforming our square back into a pentagon. 

"Vivian," she says, "from Vault One-Eleven."

Hancock goes completely still. Eerily still. I can't really tell if he's breathing or not. Then, he says, "Oh. Oh, wow."

"Told ya I was right," I mutter to him, which he ignores.

"One–One-Eleven, you say?" he inquires. Once again: _Whoosh_. 

"Yes. I believe I'm the one they call the Sole Survivor," she says.

I feel my eyes pop open as wide as they can go. "Holy shit, you're real."

The Survivor looks at me with a faint smile. "Real as real can get, kid."

Hancock clears his throat. Her attention shifts back to him as he says, "So, Vault One-Eleven... That's a long ways away. What brings you here?"

"We're working on a special case," Nick cuts in. "Confidential, I'm afraid."

"A special case?" I ask, curiosity piqued. That bit of information certainly makes MacCready's appearance boring as all hell.

"Top secret," Nick reiterates.

"Well, perhaps I could help," Hancock offers. "I'm quite knowledgeable."

"Knowledgeable about what?" the Survivor asks. 

"Quite."

She cracks a smile. "Alright, Einstein. You ever hear of the Institute?"

Hancock's bravado falters again. "Everyone's heard of the Institute."

"You know where it is?"

"No one does."

"Then, sorry to waste your time." She gestures for Nick to follow her, and the dog follows behind them.

"Now, hold on a second," Hancock says, turning her earlier words against her. "I'd really like to help you out."

"Why's that?"

"I like to help people. Don't you?"

"I do." She looks him up and down. "We're looking for my son, Shaun. He was taken from my husband and me in the vault."

Hancock opens his mouth, then closes it again, then opens it to say the most idiotic thing he could say in this moment: "You're married?"

The Survivor pauses, a familiar sadness in her eye. She subconsciously twists the gold ring on her left ring finger as she replies, "Not anymore."

The silence following is brief but full of static charge.

"Well, how can I help?" Hancock asks.

"The Institute has him, so help me find the Institute."

"Bug and I can do that."

I look at him like he's lost his marbles, which I'm almost positive he has. He's volunteering me? What gives him the right?

"Is that right?" The Survivor looks at me again. "I'd be glad to have you both."

Well, if I'm going down, I'm bringing someone else with me. 

"Oh, if you're looking for more security, Whitechapel Charlie told me there's a mercenary hanging out down in the Third Rail," I say. 

"Well, let's go meet 'em," she says. "If you'd be so kind as to lead the way."

"Sure. Right this way." I lead the group to the bar, where we move through the front room to get to the VIP room. When I look in, he's still sitting in the same spot, looking sullen. 

Without any kind of warning, the Survivor struts in. 

MacCready looks up at her. 

"Hey," she says. "You looking for work?"

He appraises her with a quick up-down. "Two-fifty a week."

"A little steep. How about two even?"

Is she fucking bargaining with a mercenary? She is definitely not from here.

"Two twenty-five," he says. 

"Done." She stoops to dig around in the satchel the dog strapped to the dog's back. I try not to be nosy, but it's exceedingly difficult. She just has the standard traveling stuff: snacks, stimpaks, and caps, which appear to be separated into neat, cloth-wrapped bundles. She fishes out four of the bundles and deposits them into MacCready's waiting hands. "Two-fifty."

"I'll need to count these," he says as he starts on the first bundle. 

"No problem. There should be fifty in each," the Survivor tells him. "I really wouldn't want to short you." I expected sarcasm, but she seems genuine. 

Once MacCready has finished counting, he stands, hands over the twenty-five excess caps, pockets the rest. "Alright. What're we doing?"

"Finding the Institute," she says.

MacCready stares at her for a moment–then starts taking the caps out of his pockets. "Hell, no. I'm not taking caps from a crazy person."

"Hey, now," Nick pipes up, striding into the room. "She's serious, son."

MacCready takes in Nick but doesn't seem affected by the synth's appearance. He looks back to the Survivor. "What do you want with the Institute?"

"I'm trying to find my son," she tells him, "and I know they have him."

"How–?"

"It's a long story. You just have to trust me." She pauses. "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

"Robert Joseph MacCready," he says, holding out his hand to her. They shake. I can't help but feel a prick of jealousy. I didn't get that kind of introduction from him. I got him grunting his last name at me without so much as a handshake. 

"Glad to meet you," she says. "Vivian, the–uh, the Sole Survivor of Vault One-Eleven."

The mercenary doesn't seem to be affected by that, either. "Okay, cool."

The Survivor grins, then turns back to us. "Alright, people, let's go."

"Where are we going?" Hancock asks as we head back out to the main room. I walk at the back of the group, just behind MacCready.

"I'd like to head northwest, back to Sanctuary," the Survivor says. "We need to set up the settlers there with some accommodations first. I promised 'em I would help them out." 

We're on the surface now, aiming for the entrance to Goodneighbor. It's been a long time since I've left. A couple of months, at least. Hancock quietly breaks away, probably going to let Fahrenheit know he's leaving. 

"And, what's my part in this?" MacCready asks. 

"Look, I can use all the help I can get," the Survivor says. 

"Help with what, exactly?"

"Setting up the settlement. There are a few people I met along the way that need help, and I'm slowly working on those things, too."

"Maybe we should split up," I suggest. "We'd solve problems faster so we can get on track to find the Institute."

"Good idea, Bug!" the Survivor says. "We'll split up." When we're outside the gate, in the glow of the Goodneighbor sign, she turns to look us over–just as Hancock rejoins us. She taps her bottom lip with her finger. "I think... MacCready and Bug–you guys should be able to clear out the Starlight Drive-In. Bunch of mole rats there, and Preston Garvey–oh, the leader of the Minutemen–he's planning to set up another settlement there soon."

I've heard of the Minutemen, the self-appointed guardians of the Commonwealth. Good people. Heard they all got slaughtered in Qunicy. So, the news of their leader surviving is quite a relief, considering what a pile of shit this part of the country has become. We seriously need some kind of supervision. 

"Hold it, sister," Hancock says. "I'm not letting Bug go off with some thug."

"Thug?" MacCready bristles. "Says the guy who killed a guy yesterday for trying to squeeze a few caps out of a newcomer."

"Hey, nobody extorts anybody in Goodneighbor," Hancock says, jabbing a finger at MacCready. "I had good reason to kill him."

"And, I'm not 'some thug,' Mr. Mayor. I'm good at what I do, and I know how to control myself, I can promise you that."

Hancock sizes up the mercenary for a long, tense moment. "We'll talk about it once we get to the drive-in."

I'm the only one who sees MacCready roll his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

We make camp by the river, huddled around a campfire MacCready started a little too easily. On the way, we lost Nick to Diamond City. He said something about checking on his assistant and to meet him at his agency when we were ready to continue the search for the Institute. 

Hancock watches MacCready carefully, even though MacCready does nothing but stare into the fire.

The Survivor clears her throat, and we all look at her.

"So, Bug," she says, looking at me across the fire, "how long have you and Hancock known each other?"

"Mm, a couple of years," I say, to which Hancock nods in agreement. "I was sixteen when I moved here from out west–the Mojave Wasteland. Been here ever since."

MacCready's eyes dart to me. "The Mojave? Like, New Vegas area?"

"Yeah, exactly there. Born and raised in Freeside," I say.

"I once met someone from that area," he says.

"Really? What was their name? I might know 'em."

"I never got his name." 

"Oh." I bring my knees up to my chest as a chilly breeze sweeps over us. Autumn is in full swing. There are only two things I miss about the desert: the constant heat of an eternal summer and my mom. 

"I have a few questions," Hancock says, and the Survivor looks at him, her eyebrows raised. "First–well, what exactly happened? With your son, I mean."

She sighs, rubbing her eyes. "It's a long story."

"We got time, don't we, kids?"

MacCready grumbles something under his breath as he lights a cigarette, and I shrug. 

"Alright. Here it is." The Survivor takes a deep breath–and tells us her story. She begins with the life she had, over two hundred years ago. Her husband, Nate, helped her pay for law school with the money he made from being in the military. A year or so after she graduated and got a job at a firm, she found out she was pregnant. Shaun was born on a cool, spring day. That October, the bombs fell, and the family of three fled to the nearest vault to their home in Sanctuary Hills: Vault 111. The vault workers put everyone into what they thought were decontamination pods. Next thing she knew, she was awake, watching as a grizzled man in a leather jacket and two people in radiation suits forcibly took Shaun from where he lay in Nate's arms. Nate put up a fight, of course. But, it ended with the man putting a bullet in Nate's head while the Survivor–though she wasn't the Survivor yet–could only watch through the little window of her pod. The man called her "the backup." Suddenly, she went back into stasis. When she woke up next, it was only a few weeks ago, over two hundred years later. Every other person who went into the vault with her was dead. She left the vault in a daze, riding the elevator up to the surface. 

And, the Sole Survivor was born into a dead world. 

The Survivor takes in a shaky breath afterward and ends her story with: "The man who killed Nate and took Shaun–his name was Kellogg, and I killed him and took this thing that–this thing in his head that made him a–an un-aging cyborg. A cybernetic brain augmenter. That's what Nick called it. Anyway, with that thing, we were able to find out at the Memory Den that Shaun is in the Institute. And, um... Shaun's aged. He's not a baby anymore. He looks about ten years old." She swipes a hand over her face. "Ten years... stolen from us."

We stare at her, no words coming from any of us. 

"I just want to find him," she says. "That's all I want."

"I don't blame you," Hancock says. I see his eyes go to me, but only briefly. 

To my right, MacCready twists a long blade of grass in his hands. He has that faraway stare again.

"Well, we'll find the Institute, and we'll find Shaun," I say, trying to be reassuring, even though logic is screaming at me how impossible it is.

"That's the thing that's making me worried, though," the Survivor says, frowning. "Kellogg told me something, right before I killed him. He said, 'You don't find the Institute. The Institute finds you.'"

"Well, that makes it a little more complicated," Hancock says, "but we'll find a way."

"We will," I say, nodding. I always find it best to nod whenever Hancock says anything.

"Thanks, guys. I really appreciate you coming along." She rests a hand on Dogmeat's head. "We should get some sleep."

"Moving out at dawn?" Hancock asks. 

"Moving out at dawn," she confirms.

* * *

The Starlight Drive-In must have been the choice hangout spot back in the day. I can tell by the rusted shells of cars and naked skeletons scattered around the lot. The big, previously-white screen stands on one end of the property, and the concession stand lies opposite. Between the cars, the ugly, wrinkled beasts known simply as "mole rats" wander around, digging through–

A few of them dig through the asphalt. _Are you fucking kidding me?_

I remove the handgun from the holster on my hip–an automatic ten-millimeter pistol equipped with a silencer that I lovingly named Peashooter–and click off the safety.

"You guys need any help before we go?" the Survivor asks, her hand lifted over her shoulder as if to pull her rifle from her back. 

"I don't think so." I look to MacCready. "You think so?"

MacCready just shakes his head.

"We should be fine," I say.

"Alright. Do you think you can find your way to Sanctuary?"

"I'm sure we can find it."

"It's northeast, right after Concord and a Red Rocket but before you reach Vault One-Eleven. You cross a little bridge. There's a sign–you can't miss it." 

"Gotcha."

"You," Hancock says, looking at MacCready. "You so much as touch a hair on her head, I'll kill you. Got it?"

Saying his first words of the day, MacCready says, "Yeah, I got it, man."

Hancock looks at me. "Watch yourself, kiddo. And watch him, too. We'll expect you before sunset."

I nod once, and they're gone, with Dogmeat running ahead of them.

MacCready reaches over his shoulder to remove his rifle. He drops to one knee, positions his hat so the brim angles upward, and puts his eye to the scope. He observes the scene for a few moments, then looks up at me. "You ever fought mole rats before?"

"Yeah," I say, defensive. "It's just been a while."

"Huh." He puts his eye back to the scope. "Best to pick 'em off from a distance."

"I know that."

"Of course you do." He lines up a shot and pulls the trigger.

The resulting bang is deafening. A hundred feet away, a mole rat falls over, dead.

"Nice one," I say, lifting Peashooter to aim at another mole rat. Just as I'm about to pull the trigger, it also falls over. _Bang._ Dead. I glare down at MacCready. "That one was mine."

"Good thing there's about thirty more." He stands, holding his rifle so the barrel faces the ground. The bastard towers over me as he raises an eyebrow at me. What right does he have to be so fucking tall? Or, am I just short? "Is there a problem?"

I clamp my mouth shut before I go off.

"I didn't think so." He strides away, to the concession stand. "I'll clear it out in here. Work on the lot."

"Don't tell me what to do!" I call.

"Then, just do it!" he calls back. 

I turn my back on the concession stand and go around the lot, executing the hideous, dog-sized creatures. I send them all to hell and am waiting by the gate by the time MacCready leaves the concession stand, munching on something. 

"Ah," he says, surveying the drive-in, "good work."

"What's that?" I ask, standing on my toes to get a peek at what he has clutched in his right hand. My stomach rumbles at the thought of eating, well, anything. I haven't eaten since this morning, and it's already after noon. 

He shrugs. "Found some crisps in there." He pauses, his eyes darting between the box of crisps and the ravenous expression on my face. Then, he holds it out to me. "Do you want the rest?"

I hesitate. He's kind of an asshole. Maybe I should act the same way back.

I quickly decide that's a stupid idea, because I'm starving, and eagerly take the box from him. "Thanks."

He shrugs again, then starts through the lot, kicking at the mole rats to make sure they're all dead.

I stay where I am, crunching on 200-year-old potato crisps, until he comes back. "Everyone dead?"

"Yep. Nice job."

"'Good work. Nice job.' You sound like a fucking teacher, MacCready. Cool it."

To my surprise, he cracks a grin. "Let's get the heck outta here." 

He and I head due northeast. 

The walk through Concord is pretty grisly. Decaying, bullet-riddled bodies are strewn about the main road, where a weathered banner of red, white, and blue proclaiming "Celebrate History! At the Museum of Freedom" hangs over the street. 

"These aren't Minutemen," I say–and automatically feel stupid. The Minutemen massacre happened a couple months ago, at the very least. And, I think most of them died in Quincy. 

"Yeah, wild dogs probably got to 'em." MacCready crouches down to inspect one body that's missing a leg. "Raiders. Dogs'll probably get to these, too. We should move on before–"

_Before they get us_ is probably what he was going to finish with. Instead, a pack of feral dogs comes into view, as they prowl together in front of the museum. 

MacCready grabs me and pulls me behind the remains of a red pickup truck. 

"What gives?" I whisper-yell, ripping my arm from his grasp. "There's just three of them. I can get them before they get us."

"Alright, sharpshooter," he says. "Show 'em what you got."

I grab Peashooter from its holster and move to the back end of the truck to look around the corner. The dogs are coming this way. One of them stops to sniff at a body, but the one in the back of their pack barks an order. The first one meekly rejoins the triangle, tail between his legs. This alpha runs a tight ship. It'd be wise to take him out first, but I can't get a clear shot. 

"What's taking so long?" MacCready demands, holding the butt of his rifle over his shoulder, ready to pull it out and take my kills.

"Keep your pants on," I say, trying to line up a shot at the alpha. 

"I don't have all day, Bug."

I give him a look, then line up my shot again. An opening. I squeeze the trigger gently, and blood sprays out of the alpha's side. He goes down and stays down. The other dogs yelp and scatter. I take one out, then the other. Their legs crumple under them, and they slide a little with the momentum before going down. 

"I oughta call ya Tex," he says in a horrific Southern accent, "on account-a how well ya shoot."

I snort. "I probably got better aim than you do."

He scoffs and drops the accent. "I make a living off shooting things, kid. What do you do? You sit around and wait for Hancock to tell you what to do."

If I were one of those dogs, I'd rip his throat out. Since I'm not, I say, "Care to make a bet?"

He stares at me. "That's not a good idea."

"Scared you'll lose?"

"Of course not." He look around, and his eyes settle on the dogs. "Alright. Twenty caps says you can't shoot the eye out of that one," he says, pointing at the alpha, which lies the furthest away. A little less than two hundred feet away. 

"Deal." I hold my hand out. 

He shakes it firmly, then nods for me to proceed. 

I drop down to one knee, holding Peashooter out in front of me. I close one eye and bite my lip. I pull the trigger lightly, and two bullets bury themselves into the dog's eye socket. I straighten, twirling the gun around my index finger. "You owe me twenty."

His mouth forms a hard line. "Hold on. Double or nothing says I can't do the same thing."

I roll my eyes at him. "If we back up a little, same thing for you, but that one," I say, pointing to the second-furthest. 

MacCready jogs backward, keeping his eye on the target. I follow him, keeping a close eye on the distance. When he stops at the correct distance, he reaches for his rifle. 

"Not so fast," I say. I offer him Peashooter. 

"You're joking."

I raise an eyebrow to indicate that I'm not. "It's only fair."

"Fine. Give it here." He snatches the pistol out of my grasp and aims it with one hand. His arm wobbles a little, since he doesn't have the support of his other hand to steady it. Rookie mistake. Then, he fires. The bullets hit the asphalt a few inches from the dog's head. 

"Forty," I correct, taking Peashooter back. "I'm guessing your specialty is rifles."

He scowls at me. 

I smile sweetly back. 

He sets off northeast. "I'll pay you once we get to Sanctuary."

"I won't forget," I say, rushing to catch up. 

"I know you won't."

* * *

We come upon the Red Rocket, a steady-looking structure surrounded by various junk and debris. A familiar dog patrols the perimeter. 

"Dogmeat!" I call out, and the dog pauses, his ears perked up. He runs over to us, tail wagging. "Hey, boy." I scratch behind his ears and look up at MacCready. "Wonder why he's here."

"The Survivor probably had him keep guard," he says, "but I'm not sure why." 

"Well, we'll just ask her ourselves." I march on, and he follows. Dogmeat takes up his patrol again. 

Just as the Survivor said, the road to Sanctuary ends in a bridge that's missing a few planks. I hop over a gap that MacCready easily steps over. 

Past a cute, faded sign that proclaims this neighborhood Sanctuary Hills and standing in front of one of the houses that still stands, Hancock and the Survivor speak to a dark-skinned man in a cowboy hat. One side of the hat's brim seems to be pinned up to the main part of the hat. I don't know what that would be called. I'm not a hat expert. 

The trio spots us, and the Survivor waves us over. Hancock is visibly relieved to see me unharmed.

"How'd it go?" the Survivor asks, looking back and forth between MacCready and me. 

"Not too bad," I say as MacCready shrugs. He does that a lot. "But, what's Dogmeat doing at the Red Rocket?"

"Oh, I left him there to guard it. I kinda wanted to make that into a sort of... home base," she says. "Just a place to hang my hat."

"Didn't you live here? Why not use your old house?"

She frowns for half a second before replacing it with a smile.

"Too many memories, kid. The Red Rocket will do just fine." She claps her hands together. "Anyway! Guys, this is Preston Garvey, leader of the Minutemen."

Preston tips his hat to MacCready and me. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Same to you," I say. 

MacCready extends his hand to shake Preston's. 

"Now that everyone's familiar with each other, let's get to work," the Survivor says. "MacCready, Hancock, Preston–I want you three on patrol. Preston'll give you two a flare gun and a couple of flares. You'll report to Preston, who will report to me. And, he'll tell you where to patrol, too." Before they can argue, which Hancock looks like he might do, she looks at me and continues. "Bug, I could use a hand moving broken furniture out of the houses. That junk will all go into the scrap pile, which we're keeping in the lot of that"–she points at a house to her right–"house, to use for, well, whatever we can use it for. Is that okay with everyone?"

Hancock half-frowns, but he nods. Preston leads them into the house to my right, where I'm assuming they're keeping all the supplies for now. 

"Alright, Bug," the Survivor says, giving my shoulder a squeeze, "let's get to work."

We go next door, where a couple of settlers shift furniture and debris closer to the front door. 

"We'll get started on the bedrooms in back," the Survivor tells me, leading the way. "I know for sure there's a broken bed frame in one of these rooms that we need to haul out."

"Okay," I say. That's my answer partly because I feel like I can't say no to her, and partly because I don't really want to say no, either. 

Together, we work to rid the house of the nastiness: the broken bed frame, a chair missing a leg, a stack of moldy towels, as well as taking a broom to the leaves and trash windswept into the edges of every room. By dinnertime, we've completely cleaned out five houses.

When the sunlight begins to fade, the settlers all come together for dinner. I'm about to sit at the Survivor's table, but Preston hands me a stack of plates and sends me to the river, where MacCready is already scrubbing at his own stack. 

I stomp over and kneel down a couple of feet away from him. I lay the plates in the ice-cold water to soak while I start on the first one. 

"Do you think he's making us wash the plates because we're the kids of the group?" MacCready asks, looking over at me. 

"Probably," I say. "And, we'll probably have to wash 'em when everyone's done eating."

"I'll chuck 'em all into the river before I do that."

I don't mean to, but I laugh. 

When we turn away from the river, we see that the settlers pulled a few tables and a bunch of chairs there. In a front yard not too far away from the dining area, two settlers work over two cooking stations. There's ten of us all crammed together, surrounded by lit candles. The Survivor told me that Sturges, the handyman Preston brought with him from Quincy, is working on building generators so we can have real, artificial light. 

After handing the plates over to the chefs, MacCready and I take a seat at the Survivor's table. It's the biggest, so it seems to be the most popular. The Survivor, Preston, Sturges, and Mama Murphy–a chemmed-up old woman that Preston also brought from Quincy–sit around it. The other two from Quincy–husband and wife, Jun and Marcy Long–sit side-by-side a couple tables over. Jun is constantly frowning, whereas Marcy is constantly scowling. 

We pass snacks around the table as we wait for the entrées. I indulge myself in all manner of crap from gum drops to a fistful of Sugar Bombs. I wash it all down with a warm Nuka-Cola. 

MacCready reaches over me to grab a second bottle for himself. The first rocket-shaped bottle sits empty in front of him. 

"Save room for dinner," the Survivor says to us from the head of the table–right as I'm reaching for a can of Cram.

He gives her a withering look. "I'm like a brahmin. I can eat for days."

"You have two mouths?" I ask. 

"No, but I got two heads."

I jab a knuckle into his arm. I think it shocks him more than it hurts him. "Don't be gross."

He rubs the tender spot, his mouth agape. 

Hancock hoots and raises his beer bottle in my direction. "To Bug, my favorite person."

I lift my Nuka-Cola back at him. 

The cooking settlers come around with plates piled with steaming food. Bloodbug steaks are in abundance, since they like to hang out by the river and try to kill anyone who passes. There's also brahmin and mole rat. I go for the brahmin. Bloodbug is fucking nasty. 

MacCready goes for the bloodbug, jabbing a fork into it and gnawing on it like an animal. Honestly, I eat the same way. 

The Survivor stands, tapping her fork against the side of her Nuka-Cola. "Everyone, I'd just like to say that I'm really impressed with our work today. We made such great progress, and we couldn't have done it if we were missing even one of you. Thank you for everything, and let's have another day like today every day."

We all lift our various drinks to her, and then we drink and eat and laugh and talk.

And, this all feels so right. It feels like this is what I've been supposed to be doing all along.


	3. Chapter 3

 

I straighten from the dirt patch I've been working in and wipe sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand.

"You got a little...," Hancock says from where he works a few yards away, circling a finger in front of his own forehead.

"Eh," I say with a shrug.

He shakes his head. "I sure don't miss that."

"Miss what?"

"Sweating."

"Yeah, well, your face looks like a puckered asshole instead."

He guffaws, and I crack a grin.

The Survivor approaches our lame little vegetable garden, which gradually slopes down to the river. "Hey, guys! How goes the planting?"

"It goes," Hancock says, rising from the ground. He grabs his coat from where it hangs on a water pump and swings it on. "How's the bed-making?"

"It goes," she replies. She looks at me. "Say, Bug, I have a project for ya. Involves Lexington."

I narrow my eyes at her. "Why me?"

"Well, me and MacCready, too."

"Why me?"

She smiles. "There's a Super Duper Mart down there, and we're just going for a supply run. I think it'd be good to have a stockpile at the Red Rocket also. Y'know. In case something should happen here that, well, our supplies go walking away–Oh, and we're taking Dogmeat, too." She pauses and purses her lips. "If you're up for it, anyway."

"Sure, I'll go. I'm sick of playing in the dirt with the old man anyway."

Hancock scowls at me. "Fuck you. I was having a nice time."

I just look at him.

The Survivor chuckles. "Alright, well, MacCready's already gone to the Red Rocket to get Dogmeat. Might as well meet him down there," the Survivor says. "Preston's overseeing things here while I'm gone, so let's not draw it out longer than it needs to be."

We set out immediately, collecting MacCready and Dogmeat on the way. We make it through half an hour of walking before we come across anything that needs to be killed. After we put down a couple of mole rats, it's smooth sailing to Lexington.

The Super Duper Mart is unmissable. It stands on the corner of two streets lined with rusted cars and half a bus. I don't have any idea where the other half could have gone.

"Alright, here's the deal," the Survivor says just as MacCready goes to open the door to the store. "There's probably going to be things in there that'll try to kill us. Don't let them."

"Good advice," I say, my hand already poised to whip out Peashooter.

"Jesus Christ," MacCready mutters, then pushes open the door.

"Dogmeat, go fish," the Survivor says.

Dogmeat, his limbs bent for stealth, goes in first. Almost immediately, he starts growling, his hackles raised.

That's when we hear a chorus of raspy screeches.

"Alright, here we go, guys," the Survivor says, her hunting rifle in hand. MacCready jams a piece of wood under the door to hold it open. "Let them come to us. _Do not go in there_ until Dogmeat comes back out."

"Ferals?" I ask, a spike of panic digging into my chest as we all back away. I know it's fucking feral ghouls. I just need to... make sure.

"Yep. Sounds like a lot, too." MacCready backs away the furthest to properly utilize his scope.

The Survivor must have spotted them first, because she fires into the open door. MacCready is a few seconds behind her, and I'm a few seconds behind him, even though I can't see a fucking thing, because it's dark as hell in there.

A feral somehow escapes our bullets and comes out onto the street. God, it's the most hideous thing I've ever seen, and I once had the privilege of seeing Hancock without a shirt on. Its grayish skin hangs off its contorted features, and its hands and feet are all sorts of fucked up, with fingers and toes either missing or fused together. Clothing hangs off its form in tatters, which actually surprises me that it's managed to keep anything on after so many years.

It doesn't get very far; MacCready loads a bullet into its forehead, and it drops like a sack of flour.

Inside, Dogmeat barks and growls like crazy. Something clatters. Something else shatters. I can't tell how many I've killed or if I've killed any at all.

A minute or so later, Dogmeat quiets down, and we cease firing.

"Is that all of them?" MacCready asks from behind us.

"I'll go and check. You two stay out here." The Survivor walks up to the entrance and drops into a crouch to sneak in.

I look back at MacCready, who gives a one-shouldered shrug. I look back at the doorway, squeezing the grip of my handgun way too hard.

It's a tense minute until the Survivor says, "Clear!"

MacCready and I head in, stepping over the one that found its way outside.

The store is a mess. Shelving units lie empty, and some of them are tipped over. The amount of trash and general debris on the floor is astonishing. There are also the usual skeletons, as well as a pile of dead ferals close to the entrance. More are scattered around the store that can be attributed to Dogmeat's efforts.

The Survivor is crouched in front of a bloody-mouthed Dogmeat, giving him a good rub-down. "Good boy. Such a good boy."

"So... there's, like, nothing really here," I say, sidestepping a corpse.

"There's gotta be something," the Survivor says, standing. "I'll look around out here. You two head to the back room. Should find something. Just keep an eye out for more feral ghouls. They like to play dead."

Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.

We leave the Survivor and Dogmeat to pilfer whatever useful things they can find out in the shopping area. MacCready leads the way, the butt of his rifle pressed firmly to his right shoulder, his finger on the trigger.

The back room is just as big a mess as the front room is. We maneuver around empty shelves and gutted machinery until we come across a room with three ferals lying on the floor. On the far side of the room lies a yellow-painted machine with what looks like a fusion core in its center. Those things fetch a hefty price anywhere.

Automatically, I take a step toward it, but MacCready places a hand on my shoulder and pushes me back.

I scowl at the back of his head. "It's a fusion–"

"Be quiet," he whispers, bringing his hand back to the trigger. "Get ready to shoot."

I hold Peashooter in steady hands. "Ready."

He fires a shot into one of their heads. The others spring to life, and I immediately press down on the trigger, filling them with lead before they can kill us.

"Teamwork," MacCready says as I cross to the fusion core.

I twist it out of its cradle and nestle it into the bottom of my backpack.

Somewhere behind me, he says, "Nice catch, by the way. I almost missed that."

"I always have an eye out for stuff that can make me money." I zip up my pack and carefully sling it on my shoulders.

"Then, I'm surprised you missed this."

I turn, and he's holding an tin with a piece of duct tape on the lid that reads: "CAPS." He pops open the lid with his thumbs and removes it. He whistles lowly, dragging a finger through the caps and rattling them. "There's at least seventy here."

I look up at him. "Should we show her?"

His lip twitches, like he barely caught his smile from showing. "Yeah, we probably should." He tucks the caps into his pack before we move on.

We find a four boxes of BlamCo Mac and Cheese, six boxes of gum drops, a box of Sugar Bombs, two tins of Cram, and a box of Dandy Boy Apples. MacCready burdens himself with all of it. When I ask him why, he says, "The fusion core might radiate it even more, kid. I don't feel like growing a third arm. Do you?"

When we've searched high and low, we go back to the front.

The Survivor sits on the floor with her back against the checkout counter closest to the door with Dogmeat at her side. She gets up when we approach. "Any luck? I heard gunshots, but no screaming, so I figured you were okay."

We tell her of our haul, and I mention the fusion core and the caps.

"Oh, wow," she says. "You two can keep the caps, but I'd like to have the core."

"To sell?" I ask.

"No, no. I have a suit of power armor, and the core in it is almost empty."

"What's the suit for?" MacCready asks, eyebrow raised. "Do you really need to use it?"

The Survivor looks at him. "With the amount of super mutants running around down south, using power armor would be a smart idea."

He frowns. "That's true, I guess."

She smiles. "Anyway, here's what I found."

She hit the motherfucking motherlode.

Her backpack is stuffed with stimpaks, bottles of purified water, and even some chems: Mentats, Jet, and a Psycho.

"Holy shit," I say as MacCready says, "Wow."

"I know." She zips up her bag. "Let's get back to Sanctuary."

* * *

MacCready and I sit cross-legged on the floor of the living room in one of the houses surrounding the giant tree toward the back of the settlement. On the kitchen island I have my back pressed to, Dean Martin's voice sings over the radio.

MacCready has a lit cigarette hanging in the corner of his mouth as he counts out the caps, dividing them equally. Then, he says, "Oh."

I lift my head. "What?"

He holds up a single bottle cap between the first two fingers of his right hand. "There's one left." He considers the cap for a moment, then places it into my pile.

"You keep it," I say, sitting up straight. "You found them."

"Hey, I'm already milking money out of the Survivor. One cap won't make or break me. You keep it."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. So, that gives me forty-two, and you forty-three. Sound good?"

I glance at both piles. They look about even. I shrug. "Works for me."

He scoops up his caps and stuffs them into an inside pocket in his coat. "Thanks for your business."

I pocket mine as well. "No, thank _you_."

The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile right as the Survivor comes in.

"Hey, kiddos," she says. "I'm going on a probably-fruitless quest. Anybody care to join?"

I look up at her. "What is it?"

"Ever heard of the Railroad?"

"That's a myth," MacCready says.

"Well, I have a lead. Overheard some guys talking about it in Diamond City. 'Follow the Freedom Trail,' one of 'em said. Now, I remember the Freedom Trail from the Pre-War days. Huge tourist attraction. A line of red bricks leading to... somewhere. I can't remember where it starts, either."

"Never heard of it," I say.

"Hold on." With a sigh, MacCready gets up and dusts off his butt. "The Freedom Trail, you said? I know where that is."

"Great! So, you'll come with me?" the Survivor says.

"Sure, I guess," he says.

"And, Bug?"

"Do I have to?" I ask.

"I'll make it worth your while."

"Keep talking."

"A hundred caps."

"No."

"Two hundred."

"No."

"Alright, three, but that's it."

"Alright." Man, I'm worse than MacCready. And, I'm pretty sure Hancock would disapprove of this, if he wasn't elbow-deep in dirt at the moment.

She smiles at me, then holds her hand out to help me to my feet. "We're leaving for Diamond City at dawn. Meeting Piper in the city before we go. I asked her about it about a week ago, and she said she'd help me find it."

"Piper?" I ask as we follow the Survivor outside, where Dogmeat sits patiently in front of the house.

"Oh, right. You haven't met Piper yet. She and her little sister, Nat–they run the newspaper, _Publick Occurrences_. Nice gal. Great aim, too. She'll be a huge help."

"Sounds good," MacCready says.

"Oh, one more thing, since we've got a few more hours of light. I wanted to start building on that empty foundation." She points to the lot across from us, behind the tree. "Sort of a recreation-type building. You think you guys can help start it? Making walls and such?"

MacCready and I share a look, and then we both shrug.

"Great! I'll send some people over to help out."

* * *

 

It takes two days to get to Diamond City. It's miles away, and pesky things such as mole rats and raiders get in our way. Luckily, we all make it in one piece to the giant stadium that serves as the city.

The sun sets as we head through the security checkpoint and descend the stairs into what was previously the field. Now, it's a mishmash of shacks and electricity lines. In the center of the marketplace, there's a food stand called Power Noodles with a repurposed Protectron... that is making noodles.

At the base of the stairs, we make an almost-immediate left, where a young girl in an orange coat and pink skirt stands on an upturned wooden crate, waving a newspaper.

"Sole Survivor of Vault One-Eleven, exclusive interview!" she yells out. "Read all about it in this week's issue of _Publick Occurrences_!"

"Hey, Nat," the Survivor says as we approach.

"Hey!" Nat holds out her newspaper. "Piper wants me to give you this–free of charge."

"Oh, thanks." The Survivor tucks the newspaper into her backpack. "Where's the red devil now?"

"Inside, cooking up a story. Want me to get her?"

"I'll just go in, thanks."

"No problem." Nat pulls another newspaper out from the stack under her arm and starts waving it again.

The Survivor heads for the door into the _Publick Occurrences_ building, gesturing for us to follow.

The inside is nice, albeit cramped. A pale woman with dark brown hair sits at a desk, her hands poised over a typewriter. She looks up at us as we enter. "Blue! Great to see ya." Her eyes fall on MacCready and me. "And... you, too, people I don't know."

"This is MacCready and Bug," the Survivor says, pointing at us in turn. "MacCready knows where the Freedom trail starts, and Bug–well..."

"I'm just here to look cute," I say.

"I thought that's what I was here for," MacCready says.

I elbow him in the side.

Piper laughs. "Nice to meet you guys."

"Anyway," the Survivor says, turning everyone's attention back to her, "we thought we'd crash here and start bright and early, if that's alright with you."

"Of course it is. Uh..." Piper looks around, lifting a pUriel cap off her desk as she rises. A piece of paper reading "PRESS" is pinned to side of the hat. She pulls it on over her head. "Someone can sleep on the couch, and the rest'll have to take the floor."

"We'll figure that out after dinner," the Survivor says. "Noodles on me."

A few minutes later, the adults sit at one end of Power Noodles' bar. Nat separates MacCready and I from the grown-ups, and I'm squeezed between her and the mercenary.

The Protectron–who Nat said is called Takahashi–serves each of us a bowl of fresh-made noodles.

I take up a fork and immediately dig in. "So, Nat," I say with noodles hanging out of my mouth, "you run _Publick Occurrences_ with Piper, right?"

"Yeah, I do," she says, twirling her fork in the noodles. "Always something to report, y'know? We're always super busy."

"I bet." I swallow. "You think you'll be a journalist when you grow up?"

"Yeah, I think so. I really like running the paper with her. I like letting people know the truth."

"The truth about what?"

"Well..." She glances around, then leans close to me. "Piper thinks Mayor McDonough is a synth."

I nearly choke on the noodles. "What?"

"Yeah, she thinks he was replaced by a synth. Crazy, right? I don't know if it's true, but she's my sister, and I trust her."

"Your sister, huh? Where are you parents?"

This time, MacCready elbows me. I raise an eyebrow at him. He presses his lips into a hard line and slowly shakes his head.

"They're gone," Nat says, and that's that. "What about you? Your parents still around?"

"Nah. I ditched those suckers a long time ago."

"You didn't like them?"

"Dad was a drug addict. He tried to sell me once to feed his habit. Not much to love, if you ask me. I love my mom, but... I couldn't sit by while she supported him."

"Oh." She puts her hand on my arm. "I'm sorry."

I pat her hand. "I'm sorry about yours, too."

She gives me a sad smile and returns to her noodles.

MacCready clears his throat, and I look at him. He doesn't say anything, though. Just shakes his head at me again.

I roll my eyes and finish up my noodles. "Nat, you feel like taking me on a tour of the city?"

She looks up at me, then looks at Piper. "Is that okay, Piper?"

"Knock yourself out," Piper says, then adds, "I mean, not literally. Don't literally knock yourself out. Especially not near the lake. That Sheng kid doesn't clean it nearly as much as he should."

"Gotcha." Nat hops down from her stool.

I slide to the ground, reaching out and yanking MacCready's sleeve as I go. He scowls at me.

"You coming?"

"Why?" he asks.

"You wanna sit here and eat noodles by yourself?"

He seems to mull it over for a few long seconds before he decides to come with us.

Nat leads the way, telling us about each store in the market: who runs it and what they sell. She takes us down a side alleyway–because "road" doesn't seem like the right word to describe it. "Mr. Valentine's agency," she says, pointing at the red neon sign that claims it as such, along with neon shaped like a heart pierced through with an arrow. "If he's not there, his assistant, Ellie, is. Really nice people. Always wiling to help." We continue on to the space behind a row of shacks. A small, manmade lake comes into view. Right in front of it sits a steel camping trailer on stilts. The sign over the doorway tells us it's Diamond City Radio, which Nat points out anyway. "Travis Miles runs the station. He's gotten a lot better since–You know the Survivor helped him gain confidence, right? She's such a nice lady. I really like her."

"Yeah, I like her, too," I say, my eyes roaming over the surface of the lake. The sun has set fully, so the stadium lights cast bright reflections over the water. "Piper mentioned someone named Sheng?"

"Oh, yeah. He runs the water purifier. He lives by himself there." She points at a little shed-like structure at the end of the dock in the middle of the lake. "Don't go in the water if you value your health. Piper was right when she said it's dirty."

I look at the water again, but I can't make out the clarity at this time of day.

"And that is the Great Green Wall," she says, pointing at the–well, the great, green wall that is the back of the stadium. "One of Piper's articles covered that. Told the public that there was a hole in the wall, and the city 'fixed' it by putting a bookcase in front of it. People were pissed."  
"I'd be mad, too," MacCready says, kicking a rock so it plunks into the water.

"Yeah, so, they fixed it," Nat says, giving the story a happy-ish ending.

We head back toward _Publick Occurrences_ , where Piper, the Survivor, and Dogmeat stand outside, talking.

"... So, I told the ass, 'Freedom of the press, you ass,'" Piper says.

The Survivor smiles, shaking her head. "You really ought to be nicer, Pipes."

Piper shrugs. "Just be glad I didn't start a fight."

"Well, I am glad of that."

They both look at the three of us as we draw near.

"How went the tour?" Piper asks, her eyes on Nat.

"Pretty good, I think," Nat says, passing by the women without a second look. "I'm gonna go to bed, though. 'Night, everybody."

"'Night, Nat," the Survivor and I say at the same time.

Nat disappears into the building.

I look at MacCready expectantly.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing."

"Well, we should all probably take a page from Nat," Piper says, holding open the door. "There's no telling what we'll run into tomorrow."

Piper supplies us with spare blankets and pillows and retreats up the short stairs to what I'm assuming is her bedroom. The Survivor curls up on the couch under a worn but clean quilt before either MacCready or I can and goes to sleep almost immediately. Dogmeat curls up at her feet.

MacCready and I kick off our boots and sprawl out on the floor, taking up the remainder of the room. He reaches over to the coffee table and turns off the lantern.

"'Night," I murmur into the darkness.

"'Night, Bug," he says.


	4. Chapter 4

I wake to gray light filtering in through the sheer drapes covering the window. Blinking away sleep, I realize that my back is pressed to something living and breathing–and it isn't Dogmeat.

I turn my head slightly and whisper, "MacCready?"

His arm only tightens around me. 

"MacCready," I say again, a little louder. 

"Lucy...," he murmurs, his fingers grasping the fabric over my stomach.

I turn my face forward as it begins to burn. Who the hell is Lucy?

He finally stirs, pressing his face into my hair, giving me a squeeze. Then, he freezes before scrambling away. "Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry."

I can't look at him. The embarrassment is too much. "Don't, um, worry about it."

"Uh..." He clears his throat. "Sorry."

I sit up, keeping my back to him. Sometime during the night, Dogmeat left his master's feet and joined MacCready and me on the floor. He lifts his head to look at me, his tail thumping against the wooden floor. I reach out and scratch behind one of his ears. 

"Bug," MacCready says, his voice low. 

I feel the muscles in my shoulders bunch up in preparation. "Yeah?"

"I–"

" _Mooorning, crew_!" Piper sings, descending the stairs, already dressed in her cap and red trench coat. She throws a hand theatrically into the air, leaning back so far that she has to grab the railing to keep from falling. Under the stairs, a pajama-clad Nat with extreme bedhead stands, rubbing her eye with the back of her wrist, waiting for her sister to finish whatever routine this is. "Isn't it a beautiful day?" 

"Five more minutes," the Survivor grumbles. 

"Nope!" Piper hops down the remaining stairs and steps over MacCready's outstretched legs to get to the Survivor. "Wake up. We got a big day ahead of us."

I grab my boots and shove my feet into them, avoiding looking at MacCready altogether. 

The Survivor pushes herself into a sitting position, her eyes still closed. She reaches up to redo her bun. She manages to perfectly recreate the hairstyle, which I find pretty impressive. "Alright, I'm up. Let's get some food in us, and then we'll go."

After a light breakfast of dry Sugar Bombs, the five of us set off. The sun has only been up for twenty or so minutes when we get to Boston Common. MacCready leads us to the start of the Freedom Trail, a fountain in front of which a board with a message written in white paint: " _At Journey's End Follow Freedoms Lantern_." Off to our right stands a Protectron. Likely a tour guide, but we have our own.

"What the hell could that mean?" I ask. 

"Got me," Piper says, scratching her chin. 

"Well, whatever it means," MacCready says, "there's the trail." He points at a line of red bricks leading away from the Common.

"Well, let's get started," the Survivor, and she starts walking. The rest of us dutifully follow. 

The path takes us on a scenic route of Old Boston. Eighteenth-century buildings galore, including a few super-old houses, a gnarly cemetery, a bookstore, a meeting hall, and Paul Revere's House. We find squares at every landmark, each with a letter painted in red upon it. Piper figures out pretty quickly that the letters spell out "Railroad." So, this shit is really real. 

Just as we're about to round old Paul's house, we freeze. Down the street, a group of raiders loiters in front of what looks like a church. We all drop down and hide behind a rusted car. 

"Fuck," MacCready says as we arm ourselves. He removes his hat so as not to draw attention and slowly peers over the hood of the car. "I count six."

"So do I," the Survivor says, looking down the barrel of her rifle over the trunk of the car. "Here's what we're gonna do: I'm going to send Dogmeat out there to distract them. While they're watching him, we make our move. Just got to pick our targets. Piper? Would you like to choose first?"

"I'm honored, Blue," Piper says. "I want the skinhead."

"Alright, he's yours. Bug?"

"Uh, the grimy-lookin' one, I guess," I say. 

"You'll have to be more specific."

"The grimy-lookin' one with the haircut that looks like he got in a fight with a weed-whacker, and the weed-whacker won."

Piper snickers into her hand.

The Survivor chuckles. "And, that leaves two for each of us, MacCready. I'll give you first pick."

"The tall one and the really short one," MacCready says, his eye pressed to his scope. 

"Okay." She takes a deep breath and pushes it out through her nose. "Dogmeat, bring 'em in."

With that, Dogmeat bolts out from cover, zigzagging as he goes. Smart dog. 

The raiders' collective attention is brought to the cute, murderous puppy. 

"Where'd the mutt come from?" I hear one of the Survivor's marks ask–right before Dogmeat steals a kill from his master and leaps at her throat.

With Dogmeat's assistance, the others are taken out in seconds. 

"Nice job, guys," the Survivor says as we all straighten and make for the church. 

MacCready jogs past a waiting Dogmeat to get the door for us. What a gentleman. 

Inside, we freeze once again. 

Lying seemingly dead all over the rubble-piled floor are feral ghouls. 

My heart leaps into my throat, and my hands start shaking around Peashooter. There are so many of them, I can't even get a count.

"Nobody... move," the Survivor says out of the side of her mouth. Then: "Okay... Slowly backward, everyone. I'm gonna throw some frag grenades in there."

"I have a couple," MacCready says, putting a hand into his satchel. 

"Good. Thank you." 

We move slowly, so as not to disturb the sleeping ferals. Once we've backed outside, the Survivor and MacCready split their grenades between the four of us. In a few seconds, I have two grenades, one in each hand, ready to pull the pins with my teeth.

"We're gonna do this together," the Survivor says, "on the count of three."

"Wait," I say. "Maybe we should plan out where we're going to throw 'em. Y'know. So the explosions aren't all in one place."

She snaps her fingers. "That's why I pay you the big bucks. Great idea. I'm throwing straight in, toward the back of the church. Piper, aim kinda toward the front. MacCready, to the left. Bug, to the right. Everyone got it?"

"Got it," we chorus. 

"Great. One... Two... Pull your pins... Three." 

We throw our grenades into the church. The screeching rises along with the deformed bodies of the ferals, and then– _BOOMBOOMBOOM_. We stay outside for a couple of minutes, listening. The Survivor signals Dogmeat to go in. When he doesn't alert us to danger, we head in. 

Blood and gore is spattered everywhere, so I immediately turn back to the entrance. As I do, I notice a white lantern painted on the side of a collapsed walkway leaning against the wall. "Oh, hey, look." I point at the lantern. "Is that what that sign in the Common meant?"

"Good eye," Piper says, moving toward the lantern. "Maybe... Guys, there's a staircase over here. Goes down."

"We're making progress," the Survivor says as she goes to take the lead. 

For some reason, MacCready and I look at each other. Then, he sweeps his arm toward the women, as if to say, _After you_.

We descend the stairs and find ourselves in a brick underground tunnel. As we delve deeper, we begin to see the same white lanterns. Pretty sure if we follow them, we'll find the Railroad. 

The only issue is that there are more ferals. 

"This is getting annoying," MacCready says, putting a bullet in a feral's head. 

"Keep firing!" the Survivor commands.

And, we do as Dogmeat brings ferals to the ground, holding them down so we can kill the shit out of them more easily. 

"Fucking hell," I say once it's over and Piper and the Survivor move forward. "Fucking ferals can eat shit."

MacCready snorts, gesturing for me to go ahead. 

When we catch up with the ladies, they're staring at a circular plaque on the wall. On the inside of one of the rings are the words " _Boston - The Freedom Trail_." 

"The thingies on the Trail," Piper says. "Remember? Spelled out 'Railroad.' Maybe..." She starts spinning the wordy ring, pressing a button in the center after each letter. A fucking wall shifts out of the way, revealing a brick cavern, where three people wait. A redheaded woman stands in the middle with a dark-skinned, white-haired woman holding a ferocious mini-gun on her right, and a pale dude in a white T-shirt and sunglasses on her left. The guy grins at us. 

It's the motherfucking Railroad. Piper needs to stop saying _maybe_. She's a freaking genius, and she needs to realize it. 

"Hold there," the red-haired woman in the middle says. "Who are you?"

"I'm the Sole Survivor from Vault One-Eleven," the Survivor says, stepping into the cavern, "and I'm here to join the Railroad."

The moon-faced guy with the pompadour grins even wider.

"Is that right?" the woman says, taking us all in. "Well... you sure don't look like the Brotherhood of Steel. I'll allow it. I'm Desdemona. This is the Railroad Headquarters. Are you here to join us?"

"Yes," the Survivor says. She pauses, then adds, "Well, I am. I'm not sure about these guys."

"Jesus," MacCready whispers to himself. 

"I'm here for her," I say, nodding at the Survivor. I'm not sure if I'm ready for this level of commitment. "MacCready?"

"Uh, me, too," he says. 

"You don't sound too committed, kid," Pompadour notes.

"Look, I'm with her"–MacCready jabs his thumb at the Survivor–"wherever she goes and whoever she sides with."

"Well, that's loyalty for you," Desdemona says. 

"No, ma'am. That's 'being paid' for ya."

Desdemona smiles, amused. Her eyes go to Piper. "And, you?"

"I'm the same as him," Piper says, nodding at MacCready. "Except I'm here because I'm actually loyal."

Desdemona's smile widens. "Good to know." She gestures to the white-haired tank of a woman. "This is Glory. Synth. Grade-A badass." She nods at Pompadour. "Deacon. Also a synth. Grade-A dumbass."

Deacon bows mockingly low. "Dumbass at your service."

"Here at the Railroad, we value equality above all else," Desdemona continues. "Is that something you're interested in?"

"Definitely," the Survivor says. 

"Good. Whoever is only here for her... maybe you should leave."

Piper, MacCready, and I all exchange looks. 

"Uh, I'm gonna go," I say, lifting my hands as if I'm expecting backlash. "Not that I'm not for equality. It's just that I'm a very small child, and I don't think I can..." I'm suddenly very aware of all the eyes on me. Especially Deacon's, even though they're the only ones hidden. A cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck. "... handle this yet."

"Understood." Desdemona looks at Piper. 

"I'll stay, thanks," Piper says, smiling sweetly. 

As for MacCready's answer, he looks to the Survivor for instruction.

"You and Bug go on home. It's completely okay," she tells him. "This was my endeavor, anyway. I really just needed help finding the place. So, thanks, guys. Oh, and when you get back to Sanctuary, I'm sure Preston has some projects for you guys. If you'd start on them, I'd appreciate it." She suddenly looks down at Dogmeat, who looks up at her. "Take him with you, too. It's dangerous out there."

"What about you?" I ask.

"You haven't really seen Piper fight, kiddo."

Piper beams. 

"Come back when you're ready to stand up for what's right!" Deacon calls after us as MacCready, Dogmeat, and I retreat back into the tunnels. 

"Should we have stayed?" I ask as we climb the stairs up into the church. "Should we go back?"

"No. The Survivor's right. It's her deal. We don't have to join a cause she's interested in," he says, reaching a hand into his duster and feeling around in an inside pocket. He stops in the threshold to the church to tap out a cigarette, which he gently places the brown end between his lips, and then he goes back to feeling around. "Crap." He looks up at me and says around his cigarette, "Got a light?"

I pat my pockets. Just a pack of gum. Maybe in my pack. I crouch down to search through it. 

"Hey, if it's too much trouble, it's fine. It can wait."

My hands close around something small, rectangular, and metal. I pull out a flip lighter and toss it to him. He just barely catches it. "You can keep that."

"I have one at home," he says, dragging his thumb over the flint wheel. A small flame pops into existence, and he holds it to the white end of the cigarette. 

"I don't smoke, so... I don't really need it."

"What about to start a fire?"

I pause. _Duh_. "Gimme that."

With a smile, he tosses it back to me. I stuff it into my backpack, and then we go, heading back toward Sanctuary.

* * *

I sit in the desk chair I dragged out here, my feet propped up on a tire, while MacCready sits on a stack of cinder blocks at the cooking station. He drags a ladle through whatever goop he's got in the pot. 

"That can't be comfortable," I comment, snacking on some iguana bits as I wait for the main course.

He gives me a look. "Well, we're in short supply of cushions around here."

"I could go steal one from Sanctuary. They have a whole pile of cushions."

"Food's almost done, anyway. Maybe go wash some bowls and spoons."

"Don't tell me what to do."

He rolls his eyes. "Please."

"Fine." I get up, and so does Dogmeat. He trails behind me as I fish around in the Red Rocket for bowls and spoons. Once three bowls and two spoons have been found, we tramp down to the river, where I'm not the only person washing dishes. Some wash laundry. I make sure to stay upstream from them. The settlers wave at me, and I wave back. 

When we get back to the Red Rocket, MacCready is standing by the fire pit, rubbing his butt. 

I guffaw at the sight, and he whirls around, red-faced. 

"I didn't–I didn't mean for you to–for you to see that," he stammers.

I can't stop laughing. 

"Okay, Bug," he says, snatching the dishes out of my hands, "it's not that funny."

I wipe tears from my eyes. "B-big, bad mercenary... rubbing his butt... because–oh, my God, this is rich–because he doesn't h-have a cushiony seat."

"Okay, you know what? It's really not funny at all."  
I bark out more laughter. 

"I oughta shoot you." 

"I'd like to see you try," I say, the laughter subsiding. I hiccup with it once more before settling a grin on him. 

Quick as a flash, he grabs his rifle from where it leans against the cinder blocks and levels the barrel at me–aiming from his hip, since his other hand still holds the dishes. "I could do it."  
"You wouldn't. You'd feel bad."

He scoffs, lowering the rifle. "I'd _feel_ bad. Yeah, right."

"Oh, come on, Mac," I say. "You made dinner for me. Not many guys would do that."

"Actually, it was for me and Dogmeat, but I guess you can have some, too."

I give him a dubious look. 

Again with the eye-rolling. "Come over here and get some."

I hesitate, because that could have more than one meaning. Of course he doesn't mean the other meaning, though. I stomp over, grab a bowl out of his hand, and ladle some gruel into the bowl. I set that on the ground for Dogmeat and go about serving myself. 

"What is this muck?" I ask as I settle back into my chair. It looks like he blew chunks into the bowl. 

MacCready sits on the ground, his back against the cinder blocks that hurt his butt. The ground is probably more comfortable. "I threw some carrots, tatos, and gourds in there with some squirrel. It's probably going to be gross."

"Shut up, I bet it tastes fine." I take a bite of the soup–and I have to force it down. "Okay, it tastes like ass."

"You know what ass tastes like?"

"No, but I'm pretty sure it's close to this."

He laughs and digs into his own bowl. "Make your own food next–" He makes a face and spits his soup out onto the ground. "God, that's disgusting. I'd rather eat ass."

I choke, too, but with laughter. 

"If I wasn't a big, bad mercenary, I could've been a comedian," he says before he swallows another spoonful. 

I stop laughing. "You're not that funny."

"Made you laugh."

"Hm." I deal with a spoonful of the crap soup. "Well, maybe you could've made it in Vegas. They have pretty low standards out there."

He purses his lips. "Is there a reason you're so antagonistic?"

"Wow. Big word."

"Or, is it just me you have a problem with?"

"I don't have a problem with you."

"Then, what's your problem?"

"Nothing. What's yours?"

"My problem," he says, as if he's testing out each word for the first time, "is that–"

Dogmeat's head snaps up, facing toward Sanctuary. MacCready and I follow his line of sight, and, sure enough, Preston and Sturges come walking down the street. Sturges carries something I can't make out from the distance. 

"Hey, kids," Preston says as they draw nearer. "Once you've finished with your supper, Sturges is going to show you something."

MacCready and I share a look. I don't know what the look means, but we share it nonetheless. 

"Show us what?" I ask, looking back to the men. I can see now that Sturges holds a small generator. 

"How to build a recruitment beacon," Preston replies, "because I thought I'd send you guys to the Starlight Drive-In to set one up."

"Sturges can't go?" MacCready asks. 

"I gotta take care of the mechanical needs around here," Sturges says, smiling slightly. "I'm sure you understand."

MacCready says something under his breath. Always with the shrugging and the mumbling. 

"Alright," I say, setting down my bowl for Dogmeat and thanking whatever powers there may be that I have an extra box of Fancy Lads in my backpack, "show me what to do, Sturges."

Preston returns to Sanctuary. MacCready watches as Sturges shows me how to rig a beacon. 

"Clip those two together," Sturges instructs, waving a finger at two loose ends of copper wire. 

"Clip 'em real good," MacCready says around a mouthful of his shit soup. 

I ignore him and focus on the task at hand. 

" _Voila_!" Sturges exclaims, swiping a hand in wide arc before him. "You got yourself a recruitment beacon."

"That was... easy," I say, surprised. 

"Amazing. Even an idiot can do it," MacCready comments. 

"Great! Then, you should be able to set one up, too," I say, beaming at him. 

His eyes are hidden in the shadow of his hat, but the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. 

"So, this one–I'll set it up at Sanctuary," Sturges says, ignoring our exchange. "We could use some more hands and eyes around the place. You think you can handle it?"

"Sure," I say. "Besides, the drive-in isn't too far away. I'll come drag you down there if I really need you."

Sturges chuckles, hefting the beacon to rest in his hands, leaning against his shoulder. "Alrighty. Take care of yourself out there, Bug. And, don't forget to bring that generator with you when you go." He glances at the merc, then leaves for Sanctuary without another word. 

"Jerk," MacCready says once the handyman has gone. 

I give him a once-over, only now noticing that he has his right sleeve rolled up to his elbow but not his left. "So, that problem you have...?"

"Huh? Oh." He scratches at a scab on his exposed forearm. "I can't remember what I was going to say. Probably wasn't too bad."

"Uh-huh." I watch him for a few moments longer before standing. "I'd like to leave at dawn."

He looks up at me. "What if I want to leave at noon?"

"Okay, I'll leave at dawn, and I'll see you at noon. By then, I'm sure I'll have the beacon set up, though, so that's pointless."

He scoffs. "Like I'd let you go by yourself."

"What? Don't think I could handle it? We already killed the mole rats."

"Yeah, but did you stop to think that maybe something nastier might've moved in?"

No. No, I did not. "Well, we're still leaving at dawn."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, but not condescendingly, like I thought he would. 

"Where do you think we should crash for the night?" I ask, eyeing the sun where it sits on the horizon. We don't have much daylight left. "Since there's only one bed here."

"We can head over to Sanctuary. It's not like it's super far."

"Very true. You finished with your brahmin vomit?" 

He looks down at his mostly-full bowl. "I don't think I can eat anymore."

"Dump it in the dirt, and let's go." I whistle for Dogmeat, and the dog abandons his bowl to stand by me. 

MacCready empties his bowl, then empties the pot as well. "I'm still hungry, though," he says, as he joins the mutt and me. 

I debate on whether or not to tell him about the Fancy Lads as we start toward Sanctuary. "I, uh, have some snacks. I'll share 'em–but you'll owe me. I kinda want to read that issue of Grognak you carry around all the time."

He laughs, "Deal."


	5. Chapter 5

MacCready peeks around the corner of the bus. "Looks pretty dead so far. Couple of dogs going to town on those mole rats, though. Yech. Look at that." He points to one particularly grisly patch of torn-up asphalt, where a few dogs are ripping chunks off a decaying mole rat carcass. "So gross."

"Gnarly," I agree. "Care to take them out? Or, shall I send our furry friend?" 

"I'll do it. Wouldn't want His Highness to exert himself." He gets down on one knee–his standard sniping position–and prepares three bullets, closing his fingers around them in his left hand. He presses the butt of his rifle to his right shoulder and peers his right eye to the scope. "Five dogs, five bullets," he says as Dogmeat inserts his nose into MacCready's ear. MacCready lifts a shoulder in response, pushing Dogmeat's face away. "Ready to be impressed?"

I stifle a bout of laughter. "As I'll ever be."

He pulls the trigger, cocks another bullet into the chamber, and pulls again. Two dogs down, three to go. However, they're panicked now, running in all kinds of directions. I have my hand locked on Peashooter's grip, ready to take it out if he fails. Beside me, Dogmeat's hackles are raised, a relentless growl rumbling in his throat. But, he stays with us. Such a good dog. 

MacCready swiftly loads two more bullets, and two more dogs go down. The last is running in our direction. MacCready is really fucking slow on reloading the last bullet.

"MacCready," I warn, Peashooter halfway out of its holster. 

"Got it, got it." Another bang, and the dog goes down several yards from us. 

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. 

He cranes his neck to look up at me. "What? Didn't think I could do it?"

"Got a little close there, Mac," I say, holding my hand out. He takes it, and I help him to his feet. 

"Look, Bug," he says as we head into the drive-in, "I'm amazing."

"Wow, coulda fooled me."

"Seriously. Five dogs, five bullets," he says again. "Look me in the eye and tell me you're not even a little bit impressed."

My eyes meet his. "Eh."

He scoffs, but it turns into a chuckle. He gestures around to the rusted cars. "Think you can scrounge up some stuff to make the beacon?"

"I think so."

"Just tell me what you need, and I'll help find it."

I rattle off the list Sturges gave me, and MacCready sets off to fulfill the checklist. As he leans into car windows and picks through debris, I meander over to a little shed by the radiated pond in the center of the drive-in with Dogmeat trailing behind me. Inside the shed, there's a workbench. Idly, I twist the handle on the vise to loosen it as my eyes roam the shelving unit: a box of Abraxo cleaning agent, a combination wrench, an economy-sized bottle of Wonderglue, and a half-used roll of duct-tape. I can make this work. 

MacCready brings an armload of junk into the shed and dumps it on the floor in the corner. "Good enough?"

I stop messing with the vise and lean on the corner of the workbench to inspect the pile. "Mmm... Looks decent. Thanks."

"Sure." He clears his throat. "Anything else I can do to help?"

"Yeah, actually. I'm gonna need a piece of metal bent into, like, a satellite dish. Can you–?"

He holds up a hand. "Say no more. I got it." He selects a roundish piece of metal from the junk pile and starts work on bending it. 

The beacon is a messy thing when it's done. Loose wires, splintered wood, and a piece of duct tape that just won't stay stuck, even after MacCready mashes the palm of his hand into it. 

"Oh, well," he says, dropping his hand. The duct tape springs back up. "Good enough."

"I hope it works," I say, climbing onto the sturdy-looking hood of a car. When I plant my butt, I see MacCready watching me. 

"I guess we'll find out." He lifts his rifle and slings it across his back before shoving his hands in his pants pockets. "What should we do until then?"

I glance around. "We could clean the place up a little."

He makes a face. 

"Or not."

"Well, we can't really move the cars around, and I do _not_ want to touch the dead things." He thinks for a moment, tapping a finger against his jaw. "We could... read my Grognak comics–or we could get drunk. There's a stash of alcohol in the... food building." He nods at the concession stand. "Found it last time we were here."

Being drunk sounds pretty appealing right now. Being drunk with MacCready sounds even more appealing. 

"Okay," I say, hopping down to the pavement. "Let's do it."

A few minutes later, MacCready and I sit side-by-side on the floor behind the concession stand's serving counter. A battered but readable issue of Grognak lies open on the floor in front of us, largely ignored. 

He twists the cap on a bottle of bourbon, breaking the seal, and takes a sip. He passes me the bottle, his face screwed up as he swallows. "Ooh, that's bad."

"Can't be worse than your soup." I tip the bottle up, and his hand shoots out to tip it all the way back. I end up guzzling down more than a few mouthfuls. When he lets go, I cough, holding my throat with my free hand. 

"Worse than my soup now?"

"Yes. God. Asshole."

He laughs and holds his hand out for the bottle, which I'm more than happy to relinquish. He throws it back like a shot. "Ah!" 

"Strong stuff," I say, already feeling a pleasant buzz in my veins.

"It's been finely aged for over two hundred years," he says, the rim of the bottle pressed to his bottom lip. He takes a gulp. "I wonder how good a bottle of scotch would be."

"Probably really fucking good." I reach for the bottle and throw it back like he did. I groan as it burns my throat. 

"Keep drinking. We're not close yet."

"Close to what?" 

"Drunkenness. Bottoms up, Bug." 

I'm not sure how much time passes until we're laughing obnoxiously at God-knows-what, leaning against each other for support under the waning sun.

"All I'm saying is..." MacCready trails off, his eyes glazed over. "I... don't remember what I was gonna say."

A sputtering laugh spills out of my mouth, and I grab onto his arm. "What an airhead."

"H-hey. I'm cool, okay? I'm... I'm _so_ cool. I was a _mayor_."

I blink at him. "Whaaat?" 

"Yeah. Down in the, um, Capital Wasteland. There was a town of just kids in this cave... I was the mayor."

"That's... so fucked up."

"Wh–How?"

"Where were the adults, b-baby mayor?"

"I wasn't a baby. A-and, the mungos caused problems, so they went to Big Town." He frowns. "Dang. I'm a mungo now, too."

"Mungos? Sounds stupid."

"Well, what about you? Born in the freaking desert, right? _We_ had _trees_."

" _We_ had..." I laugh again. "We didn't have _shit_. I ate giant rats."

He snorts, and we dissolve into laughter until we hear Dogmeat barking. 

"Oh, no," we say together, and then we snicker together.

"Bug?" The Survivor's voice carries into the concession stand. "MacCready?"

MacCready sloppily maneuvers onto his hands and knees, grabs onto the edge of the counter, and pulls himself up. "Aye, C-Captain?"

"MacCready," she says, "where's Bug?"

I throw a hand into the air and wave. "Present."

"Are–are you guys drunk?"

MacCready tries to step over my legs but trips on them. He laughs as he falls and laughs even harder when he lands. 

"Oh, my gosh," I say, crawling over to him. "You okay?"

He rolls over onto his back, still laughing. 

"Airhead," I say with a goofy grin. 

"Shut up."

I give him my hand and pull him into a sitting position as the Survivor leans over the countertop to look at us. 

"Did you guys at least set up the beacon?" she asks.

"Yes, ma'am," I say, realizing just how close my face is to MacCready's. 

"Alright, well... You two just stay put. I don't need you running around, drunk." She pauses, and I hear the clicking of a dial on her Pip-Boy. "Looks like the beacon works. I'll be on the lookout for newcomers."

"Yes, ma'am," I repeat. Warmth floods into my face as MacCready smiles at me, his eyes half closed.

"Dogmeat, come, boy," the Survivor says. 

"I need a nap," MacCready says, tilting forward. His forehead hits my shoulder, his cap sliding back on his head. I just go with it until I'm lying on my back with his head resting on my chest. "'Night, Bug."

"'Night, Mac," I say.

* * *

I wake up with my head pounding and MacCready missing. I bolt upright, calling, "Mac?"

"Out here," he responds.

I use the counter to pull myself to my feet, and then I'm face-to-face with the mercenary. 

MacCready sits on one of the stools outside, using his fingers to scoop Cram out of a can. "Hungry?"

"I'd rather die than eat out of that can."

"So dramatic." He sticks his hand into the backpack resting on the counter. "Which sounds more appealing: Sugar Bombs or Fancy Lads?"

I think for a moment. "Fancy Lads."

He hands me a plastic-wrapped snack cake. 

I tear into the package right as I hear the mooing of a brahmin. I stop and look over his shoulder. "What the fuck?"

He swivels around in his seat to look. I watch, stuffing half the cake into my mouth. 

By the dilapidated gate, the Survivor is welcoming a sextet of settlers with a brahmin carrying a few trunks behind them. 

"The first thing I'd like to do is clear away some of these cars." The Survivor gestures to the graveyard of automobiles. "And, well, I guess the bodies, too."

"Bodies?" one settler asks, nervously looking past the Survivor.

"Just some mole rats and a few dogs. Nothing too bad." With that, the Survivor leads them around, pointing out how she'd like to push the cars into makeshift walls for the settlement. MacCready and I stay at the concession stand, though I climb over the counter to sit on the stool next to his. 

When the settlers start work, the Survivor comes over to us and folds her arms clumsily, the Pip-Boy getting in the way. 

"What?" I ask, taking in her stern expression. 

"Drinking on the job?" she asks. 

"In our defense," MacCready says, sliding off his stool to tower over the Survivor, "we'd already finished our job, which was to set up a beacon–which our lovely Buggy Dearest did in record time."

"Buggy Dearest?" I say.

The Survivor's gray gaze darts between MacCready and me, and then her scowl softens. "Okay. I believe you. Thank you. I really do appreciate your help."

"It's no problem," MacCready says. "However, there's a small matter of payment for services rendered."

"It hasn't been a week yet." 

"Yes, it has. Two weeks, actually."

"It has?" She checks her Pip-Boy. "Ah, hell. I left most of my caps back at the Red Rocket. Can I pay you when you get back from Abernathy Farm?"

He folds his arms over his stomach, too. "From who-what-now?"

She looks confused for a moment before she remembers something. "Oh, sorry. I forgot to tell you. There's a family of farmers down there that needs help with a group of raiders. I was going to ask you and Bug to help 'em out. If you're up to it, of course."

MacCready looks at me. I look right back at him and shrug. He turns to the Survivor. "We'll go see what's what."

"Great! Oh." She remembers something else. "I'd like you to take Deacon with you."

"Who?" I ask.

"Deacon? Railroad agent with the stupid hairdo?"

"Oh, _that_ guy." I pause. "Wait. Why does he have to come?"

"He wants to help me out with what I'm doing," she says, "so I'm more likely to help with what the Railroad's doing."

"So, a form of bribery?"

"I guess, if you want to look at it that way."

We stare at her for a few moments before I ask, "And, what're you going to do?"

"I already sent Deacon to the farm, so I thought I'd send for Hancock and get him to help out around here. You think he'll go for it?"

I give her an up-down look, taking in the form-fitting vault suit and her appealing physique. Just the right balance of fat and muscle. Not to mention her pretty face and hair. Hancock usually judges books by covers–and then gets to know the pages really well. "Uh, yeah, I think he'll go for it."

She smiles a tiny smile. "Since you're heading up that way, would you mind going a little farther and passing along my request?"

"I don't mind. Mac?"

He shrugs. 

"Fantastic." She gives each of us a shoulder-squeeze. "Thanks, guys."

* * *

"You're fucking kidding me, right?" Hancock asks, staring up at me with wide, dark eyes. In one hand, he holds a Jet inhaler. When I walked in, he'd been prepared to huff from it. "The Survivor wants _my_ help?"

"Swear to God," I say. 

"She asked for me–specifically."

"She sure did, old man."

He looks down at his Jet and stuffs it into his trouser pocket. Then, he stands. Why is everyone in my life so goddamn tall? "Where is she?"

"Down at the drive-in," I say. "She's waiting for you."

He looks starstruck as he grabs his hat off a nearby end table and fits it over his pockmarked head. "I'll set out right now. Don't want to keep the lady waiting."

I smile at him. 

He gives me a one-armed hug and leads me from the house. "Haven't seen too much of you lately. You been alright, kiddo?"

"Yeah. I'm okay. How about you?"

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Hancock, it's me you're talking to."

"Alright." He turns to me in the threshold of the house. Outside, MacCready leans against the big tree, his face turned down to the ground. "I kinda... might be in love with the Survivor."

"What? You barely know her."

"You ever hear of 'love at first sight'?"

"Yeah, but the first time you saw her, you–Oh. That's right. You stopped dead in your tracks and started stuttering." I snort, trying to hold back a grin. "Well, you shouldn't keep her waiting."

He glares down at me, but his frown turns into a smile. "And, what do you think about the beanpole?" He looks pointedly at MacCready. 

"Nice enough for a merc."

Hancock laughs, squeezing my shoulder. "Good. If he ever gets handsy–"

"Rip his hands off. I got it."

"That's my girl."

We collect MacCready–the mercenary and the ghoul nodding wordlessly at each other by way of greeting–and head to the Red Rocket. There, we split up. Hancock heads southwest; MacCready and I make our way due south.

An hour or so later, we come upon the small farm. A man and two women mill about between rows of tato plants and mutfruit trees. 

Deacon leans against a fencepost by the plants. His pompadour is missing, his bald head shining in the sunlight. The sunglasses are still there, though. He and the farmers look up as we tramp through the underbrush. He stands up straight as we draw closer, folding his arms over his stomach. "Hey, there," he says. 

"Hey. What's the deal?" 

"Mr. Abernathy will be more than happy to give you the deal. Oh, Mr. Abernathy!"

One of the farmers looks up. He wipes sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his dirty jacket. "Can we help you with something?"

"Actually, we're here to help you," I tell him. "We're with the Minutemen."

"Oh." He looks us over. "Not quite what I was expecting." 

"Sorry to disappoint. We'll be leaving now. C'mon, Bug," MacCready says.

I elbow him. "Shut up." I look back to the man. "We can take care of your raider problem. Do you know where they are?"

"They're at the USAF Station–the way you just came," he says, pointing north.

Beside me, MacCready groans, but low enough so only I can hear it. 

"We'll get to it, then," I say, turning.

"Hold on. There's one more thing," the man says. "They... they came here, and my daughter, Mary–she tried to fight them off, and... they killed her. Took her locket. If you could find it and bring it back, I'd be so grateful."

"How many caps is it worth to you?" MacCready asks.

Deacon's eyebrows draw together over the rims of his sunglasses. 

" _MacCready_ ," I gasp. "Shut _up_." I look at the man. "I'm so sorry. We'll try to find it while we're there."

"Thank you," the man says, his eyes focused on me. 

With that, MacCready and I turn back north. 

Behind us, Deacon jogs to catch up. When he does, he slings his arms around MacCready's and my necks. "So, groupies, ready to do what's right?"

"Is that why you're here? To guilt trip us?" I ask as MacCready shakes Deacon off him. "Trying to woo us into joining the Railroad?"

"Uh-oh. I've been found out." 

"Look," MacCready says, "I'm not joining, so you can save your breath."

"Hardy-har-har," Deacon jabbers. "Funny, because I'm a synth, right? You should be a comedian."

"That's what I told Bug."

"Bug? _That's_ your name? Shit, kid." Deacon squeezes his arm tighter around my neck as he laughs. "I'm sorry. That's terrible."

"Thanks," I say. "I really wanted your opinion."

"Aw, c'mon." He laughs again, his hand fluttering by my jaw. "Alright, alright. I'm sorry. I can't call you 'Bug,' though. That's just..." He releases a sputtering laugh, and my lips press into a hard line. "Sorry! I can't help it!"

"Well, what the fu–heck kind of name is Deacon?" MacCready asks. 

Deacon's grin slips away, his face turning stony as he regards the mercenary. "What was your name again? MacGreedy? MacNeedy?"

MacCready doesn't reply. 

Deacon laughs, hooking his arm around my neck again. "How about Butterfly? I like that a lot better, don't you?"

"Eh. I prefer Bug, to be honest," I say.

"I hear ya loud and clear, Butterfly."

I decide I do not particularly care for Deacon. I just have to make it to the USAF Station, make it through a horde of raiders, and then back to the farm–and Deacon will be out of our hair. 

By the time the USAF Station is in sight, it's early afternoon. Five raiders mill about the shacks built outside the actual station, high on whatever chems. A couple of dogs roam the area as well, moving independently from their masters. We watch from behind some bushes. I try to pick out any kind of pattern, but their movements are random. 

"Here we go," Deacon says–and charges right in. 

I watch, wide-eyed and unable to call out to stop him. 

"Oh, my God, he's crazy," MacCready says, crouched beside me. 

"Well, let's help him," I say, bringing up Peashooter and checking the magazine. Full. I make to move out from behind the bushes, but MacCready stops me with a hand wrapped around my wrist. 

"Do not go in there," he says as the shooting starts. "It's too dangerous." 

"You really want to do this right now?" I hiss, wrenching my arm out of his grasp. "I have some stimpaks. I'll be fine." I try to stand, but he grabs me again. 

"Those only really work if there's an exit wound," he says, his brows pulled together under the brim of his hat. "Stay here and pick them off from a distance. It's safer."

Deacon howls with laughter somewhere in the jumble of shacks. There is now a lack of gunfire. 

"I don't have a long-range weapon, MacCready." Again, I shake him off. "Jesus Christ." I finally get to leave from behind the bushes, just as Deacon returns, his shotgun smoking. 

"Where were you guys?" He pouts. "I did all the work."

I look past him at a pair of legs peeking out from behind a shack. "Looks like it." I look back at him. "I'll be more help inside, I promise."

He grins. "Can't wait to see you in action." He looks at MacCready, who emerges from his hiding spot. "And, you didn't help, either. What the hell, man?"

"Sorry," MacCready says, but he's not sorry at all. "I'm gonna check out these shacks for supplies. You guys can go in and start, if you want." 

"Nope," I say. "We do this together. Let's look after we clear out the station."

MacCready looks at me, but it doesn't look like he sees me. "Alright."

His easy agreement shocks me enough that I'm a couple of steps behind them as they head into the station. 

"How do you want to play this?" Deacon whispers to us as we quietly descend a set of concrete stairs. "I do all the work, and you guys just watch? Kinda like how it went out there?"

"I can help," I insist, resisting the urge to shove him down the last few steps. 

"Didn't help out there..."

"MacCready held me back."

In the small front room, Deacon turns to face us. "What? Why?"

I shrug, because I really don't know.

MacCready says nothing.

Deacon reaches under his sunglasses and rubs his eyes. "Okay, well, ideas?"

"Stealth," I say. "Best option, since none of us know the layout of the place."

Deacon nods. "Sounds good to me. MacSneezy?"

MacCready lifts a noncommittal shoulder. 

"Alrighty, then. I'll take point, if you guys don't mind."

"Fine with me," I say. 

The three of us drop into crouches and move through the main room, ignoring the one side room for now. We sweep deep into the station, mowing down raiders as we go. Deacon and I go up-close and personal to several of them while MacCready hangs in the background, putting bullets in a few heads. 

When the raiders have been dealt with, MacCready and I do the natural thing and loot the bodies. Deacon walks off to explore. 

"Hey, look," I say, a pair of handcuffs dangling from my index finger. 

MacCready looks at me, then looks at the handcuffs and snorts. "What're you gonna do with those?"

"I dunno. Might come in handy one day." I throw them in my backpack. 

"Come in handy? In what kind of situation?"

"Any kind," I say, yanking the zipper closed, "where I need someone to keep their hands to themselves."

It looks like he doesn't want to smile, but he does.

"I found the thingy!" Deacon calls out to us, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Aw, the picture inside is so cute, too!" 

"I think he found the thingy," MacCready says as we head toward the sound of Deacon's voice.

I laugh, secretly hoping he's forgotten about how weirdly protective he was earlier.

Deacon crosses a threshold before we do, a locket cupped in his hand. "So, I'm definitely going to lose this thing if I'm responsible for it. Who wants to hold onto it?"

"I'll take it," I say, holding my hand out for it. 

He gently places it into my hand. "I hope you don't lose it."

"I won't." I tuck it into my backpack, alongside the handcuffs.


	6. Chapter 6

"You ever hear of the Silver Shroud?" the Survivor asks me as she shucks an ear of corn. Sanctuary's soil must be fertile, because the crops have been growing rapidly, which is fantastic, since the population of Sanctuary has grown to thirty-two. With so many settlers, they've begun constructing walls around the perimeter of the settlement. 

"Yeah, I've heard of the Shroud. Some dorky, Pre-War superhero or whatever," I say, smashing tatos in a pot with a wooden spoon. "What about it?"

"Isn't MacCready into that kind of stuff?"

I look over at her, but her eyes are focused on her work. "Yeah, I think so. He's always reading the same two issues of Grognak, but I figured it was because he couldn't find anything else to read."

"Hm, well, I have a fun little mission for you and him, if you're interested," she says. "Kind of a break from the settlement thing."

"Keep talkin'."

She smiles and throws the naked ear of corn onto the pile at her feet. "There's a ghoul who stays in the Memory Den. Kent Connolly. You probably know him."

"Oh, yeah, Kent. He's bananas for the Silver Shroud. What about him?"

"He sure is," she chuckles. "Well, they were going to tape a television show for the Shroud, but then, y'know, total atomic annihilation happened, and it was cancelled. Anyway, Kent asked me to go to Hubris Comics to find the costume. It should still be there."

"And, we're going to bring this costume to him?" I guess.

"If you want to, of course."

"No, yeah, it sounds like fun," I say. "I'll ask him about it."

"Ask Deacon, too. I think you three work really well together, and, well, there's safety in numbers, right?"

"Right."

* * *

The color drains from MacCready's face. "The S-Silver Shroud? The costume is in Hubris Comics? You're sure about this?"

"Well, that's what the Survivor said," I say. 

"Bug, this is–" He stops, clears his throat, and appears to be trying to calm himself down. "We have to go. Right now."

"Not so fast. She wants us to ask Deacon to come along, too."

He makes a face. "Do we have to?"

"He might grow on us."

"I sure hope not."

We find Deacon sitting on a curb, dressed in road leathers. The sunglasses, as I'm sure is usual, are stuck firmly on his face. In his hands, he holds a black-haired wig and a comb. He casually and methodically runs the comb through the locks. 

"What are you doing?" I ask him.

"What does it look like? I'm combing my hair. Is that illegal or something? Jeez." He stops combing, stands up, and sets the wig over his chrome-dome. With the comb, he styles it back into that stupid pompadour. "I'm going for a 'greasy off-duty mechanic' look. You like what you see?"

"No" is MacCready's immediate reply.

I snort, partially because of MacCready's bluntness, partially because it is a good look for Deacon–despite the pompadour. 

"Humph." Deacon's focus goes to me as he tucks his comb into an inside pocket of his leather jacket. "Is there a reason you interrupted my quality time with my hair?"

"You mean, your wig," MacCready says. 

Deacon ignores him.

"Yeah, there's a reason." I tell him about the Silver Shroud costume and its supposed location.

He strokes his clean-shaven chin. "Interesting, interesting. I'll need to think this over." There is the briefest of pauses. "Okay, I'm in."

We immediately pack up some supplies and hit the road, aiming in the general direction of Diamond City.

* * *

The three of us stand before Hubris Comics, a couple of blood-soaked ferals strewn at our feet. 

MacCready takes a step toward the entrance but stops to look back at us. "Think there are more ferals in there?"

"Most likely." Deacon takes the lead and throws open the door before either of us can stop him. He charges in, lighting up the place with pops of light as he blasts holes in feral chests.

"Uh, after you," I say, motioning for MacCready to go in. 

A look of determination sets in, and then he strides in, holding his rifle level horizontally. He really wants to see this costume. 

Deacon has already cleared the bottom floor, but shots can be heard on the second floor. "Are you guys even in here?" he calls, his pale face visible as he leans over a hole in the floor. "I'm sweating my ass off in this leather getup, and getting no help at all is not helping that situation!"

"Coming, coming!" I bound past MacCready and up the stairs, taking care not to step on any dead things. MacCready rushes to catch up with me, which doesn't take much effort on his part; his legs are a mile long. 

We clear the rooms, looting for additional supplies as we go. I procure a couple of stimpaks, MacCready gets his hands on a container of purified water, and Deacon acquires a couple tins of Cram.

The main event happens when we reach the top floor. On a mannequin in front of a faded city backdrop sits the Silver Shroud costume, a miraculously-untouched relic from a couple centuries ago. A long, black overcoat with gray lapels, a matching gray scarf, black slacks, and a black fedora with gray trim. It's beautiful.

Deacon's mouth audibly pops open at the same time MacCready gasps and steps forward.

That's when I notice a strange, green glow behind the backdrop. I grab the back of MacCready's duster and pull him back before he can advance. He gives me an annoyed look, but I point at the glow. He realizes then.

"Glowing One, whoa," Deacon helpfully points out. "I'm gonna kill it."

"Or– _or_ ," I say, hoping to stop him as well, "we could grab the costume and get the fuck out before it sees us."

"Or, I could throw a grenade over there and explode it."

"You could ruin the suit, jackass," MacCready hisses, "and that's the whole reason why we're here."

Deacon stares at MacCready for a long moment, then shrugs. "Whatever you guys wanna do, then."

"I vote for sneaking," I say.

"What if there are more props behind there?" MacCready asks. "We could totally miss out on them."

"Props? Like what?"

"Like the silver machine gun."

"That... is intriguing."

"That _is_ intriguing," Deacon says. "Let's fucking kill it, then."

"No grenades," MacCready reminds him.

"I'm not an idiot, man." Deacon slinks halfway into the room, shotgun at the ready. 

"Stay back," MacCready cautions me. "I doubt Peashooter can handle this thing."

For the second time, I find myself annoyed by his holding me back from a fight. "Can you just let me be an adult? I'm eighteen, for Christ's sake."

"I'm just trying to–" He cuts himself off. It looks like he doesn't know what he's trying to do.

My eyebrows quirk in a challenge.

He doesn't pursue it. He pursues Deacon instead.

I hang back–because I want to–and keep Peashooter out. He was right, though; my beloved weapon is reliable but not particularly strong. 

Deacon and MacCready share a look. MacCready inclines his head before dropping to a knee. Deacon moves in. 

The bang from Deacon's shotgun rattles my teeth and tightens my hold on the grip. A horrendous, wet screech assaults our ears before Deacon fires another shot. 

MacCready goes prone, pushing his cap back on his head. He pulls his trigger, and, underneath the backdrop, I see one of the Glowing One's feet come off. Green, glowing blood sprays the floor. Another screech as it falls. 

Deacon takes the opportunity to silence the creature with a blast to the head. 

"Teamwork," MacCready says, getting to his feet.

Deacon disappears behind the backdrop. "Neat! The machine gun is actually here!"

MacCready nearly trips over his feet as he rushes to see.

I start looking around as the nerds bicker over who gets to hold the gun first. A row of lockers lines the wall behind a partition on the left side of the room. Digging through them, I find another costume that might interest MacCready even more.

"Hey, Mac?" I call, holding up the–is this a loincloth? 

"Yeah?" 

"Come take a look at this."

"Deacon–don't you dare!"

"What?" Deacon asks, feigning innocence. "I wasn't gonna load a forty-five in there and see if it works."

"Gimme that." 

"Hey!"

"You guys are such babies," I say, coming back to the main room. 

They come out from behind the backdrop, the silver machine gun in MacCready's possession. He almost drops it when he sees what I'm holding. He thrusts it into Deacon's hands and quickly closes the space between us. He takes the fucking _loincloth_ from me and holds it up, a look of pure wonderment on his face. "A genuine Grognak costume!" he gushes. "I can't believe this."

"What a nerd," Deacon laughs. 

"Says the guy who was arguing with the nerd over who got to hold the gun first," I say, shooting him a look.

"Hey, if anyone knows cool, it's me–and this thing is _cool_ , okay?"

I just shake my head and look back to MacCready, who is frozen, his lips parted, as he stares at the Grognak costume. "Are you okay?" I ask.

He nods dumbly, looks at me, and then turns back to the Silver Shroud costume. "I'm gonna put it on."

"Please tell me you're talking about the Silver Shroud costume," Deacon says.

" _Duh_." MacCready swings off his pack, gingerly places the Grognak costume inside, and then goes to the Silver Shroud getup. 

Deacon and I watch as MacCready unceremoniously sheds his hat and duster and dons the costume.

As he buckles the belt around his waist, he turns back to us. "What do you guys think? Pretty nifty, huh?"

"I've thrown together better outfits in the dark," Deacon says.

"Shut up," I say. "You look magnificent, Mac."

For the first time ever, MacCready beams at me. 

I get a weird feeling in my stomach that isn't all that unpleasant.

"Alright, let's get on over to Goodneighbor and give that ghoul the costume," Deacon says. "We should make it there by nightfall."

MacCready examines the cuffs of the coat for a moment before he shrugs out of it. Every piece of it goes into his backpack. I'm okay with that; I figure he'd lay down his life for his weird obsession with Pre-War superheroes.

* * *

Kent Connolly was beside himself when he received the costume. He thanked each of us with a hundred caps and sent us on our way, admiring the costume as we left.

We spend the night in Hotel Rexford, Deacon graciously offering to pay for the room. Neither MacCready nor I protest; we're both cap-hungry fiends. 

Once we settle in, which usually means kicking off our boots and peeling off our jackets, Deacon drops facedown on the only bed and almost immediately goes to sleep.

MacCready sweeps his arm toward the couch. "It's yours if you want it."

I think of how my back aches too much for a teenager. "Thank you kindly, sir."

He smiles slightly, then sinks to the floor, cross-legged. He removes his hat, reaches into his pack, and pulls out one of his Grognak comics. Now that I know just how big of a nerd he is, I'm assuming he's matching the details of the found costume to the ones in the comic.

I watch him study the pages, flipping back and forth, back and forth. After a while, I say, "Are you gonna be up for a while?"

He looks up at me. "Probably. Is the light bothering you? I can read in the bathroom."

"No, it's okay." I lean sideways until I'm lying down. 

He glances at Deacon, who is already in a deep sleep, then looks back to me. "Actually, I need to tell you something while we've got some time." He looks pointedly at the door to the hallway. 

"Really? I _just_ lied down, man."

"It's important."

I purse my lips before pushing myself up. We go out into the hallway. 

"What is it?" I ask, looking up at him expectantly. 

A pained expression crosses his face. "This isn't easy for me to say, Bug."

"You're the one who brought me out here to tell me–"

"I was a Gunner."

I stop, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. The Gunners are just as bad–if not worse than–raiders. I don't know what to say. 

"Those guys that followed me into Goodneighbor–they were Gunners I worked with. They came to tell me off for taking jobs here in the Commonwealth," he explains. "And, I want to kill them before they kill me."

I blink at him–and nod when I feel like blinking isn't enough of a reaction. I try to imagine him as a rough-edged gang member and ultimately fail. He fought with Deacon over the Silver Shroud's gun. He reads Grognak comics during our downtime, for God's sake.

"I..." He slides his fingers through his hair, and I realize this is the first time I've actually seen him with his hat off for longer than a second. "I know this is a lot to take in, but–"

"I'll help you," I interrupt. 

"Wh–You will?"

"Of course I will, Mac. We're partners."

The pain transforms into relief. "And, I couldn't ask for a better partner, Bug. Thank you."

My face grows warm, that weird feeling in my gut again. "Thank me after we take down those assholes."

He smiles down at me. "I won't forget."

"I know you won't."

* * *

MacCready and I conspire as we hammer nails into planks of wood outside the Red Rocket with the intent of building walls for the structure the Survivor is building out back. Well, I do the hammering; he hands me the nails. 

"I know where they are," he says, observing me as I work. He stands over me, blocking the sun from touching me. "I'm just not sure how to... approach it."

"Where are they?" I ask, sitting back on my heels and looking up at him. 

"The Mass Pike Interchange, a little way south of Drumlin Diner," he replies. "They're up on a fu–freaking highway, and you gotta go up in a lift... so it's gonna be tough getting up there."

I look down at his boots, then down at my dirty jeans. I wipe my hands on them. "We can do it."

"Not by ourselves."

"Who else do you trust to take with us?"

He doesn't say anything. Instead, he sinks down to sit on the ground in front of me, wrapping his arms around his knees. He gazes intently at me for a long while. I want to say something, rib him for staring at me, but I can't. This is serious business. 

Finally, he says, "Deacon."

I have to scoff at that. "Deacon? Really?"

"Deacon knows how to keep a secret."

I want to take back my scoff, because that's true. "We'll ask him, then."

"I should do it," he says. "It's my problem."

I nod once in agreement. 

He sighs, his eyes closing for a few seconds. When he opens them, they refocus on me. "I want to thank you, but you told me not to."

I half-smile. "Damn right, I did. I didn't do anything worthy of thanks yet."

He shakes his head. "Actually, you did by agreeing to help me."

I shrug. "Anyway, any idea when we'll go?"

"As soon as possible," he says. "I hate having to constantly look over my shoulder. I'm getting a crick in my neck from it."

My half-smile stretches to a full one. I try not to show him that it surprises me when he reciprocates with a close-mouthed smile of his own. 

God, we smile at each other like idiots for at least a minute–until Deacon strolls out of the Red Rocket, whistling a jaunty tune. He's still got his wig on, but his road leathers have been replaced by a slightly dirty doctor's coat and black slacks. At this point, I'm sure the sunglasses are actually an integral part of his anatomy.

"Hey, guys," he says. "How's the building going?"

I quickly look down at my handiwork, my ears burning. "Uh, fine, fine. Slow as all hell, but it beats getting almost chewed on by ferals."

"Ah, the simple joys of working with your hands. But, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Mac?" He raises a suggestive eyebrow at the mercenary, flicking his tongue across his lower lip.

MacCready lifts his own eyebrow, but it's nowhere near suggestive. "What?"

"Nothing. Just trying to be funny. I see it's not working."

"Yeah, maybe you should stop," I say. 

"Never."

MacCready gets up, brushing dirt off his butt. "Deacon, can I talk to you for a minute?"

If Deacon is surprised by this, he doesn't show it. With a "Sure, Mac," he follows MacCready into the Red Rocket. 

_I'm_ surprised by this. I already know what's going on. What's there to hide?

I wait semi-patiently for them to come out, which takes twice as long as it should. I use a nail to scrape the dirt out from under my fingernails.

The men come back outside after a few minutes, both of them appearing normal and suspiciously nonchalant. Deacon tips his wig at me as he passes. 

I narrow my eyes at them, but they pay me no mind. MacCready sits in front of me again, scoops up his pile of nails, and offers me one of them.

"Everything okay?" I ask him as Deacon continues on to the road to Sanctuary. 

"Yep. We're leaving the day after tomorrow. Deacon's got a few things to do for the Railroad before we go."

"Okay..." I pick up my hammer, position the nail, and whack it a few times. "What were you guys talking about?"

"Going to put down those Gunners," he says. "Why?"

"You were in there a long time. And, you were in there, so I thought that maybe you guys were talking about me, too."

He scoffs. "Don't flatter yourself."

My eyes remain narrowed at him. 

He just offers me another nail.

I look at it, then pluck it from between his thumb and finger. "I know you were talking about me, Mac. I ain't stupid."

He scoffs again. 

My lips purse. "Alright, whatever."

"Anyway," he says, "what do you want to do when you're done with... this?" He gestures at my construction project. 

"Oh, I'm done now." I throw down the hammer and the nail. "I need to eat something. I'm starving."

"I have some squirrel bits in my backpack," he says, nodding to the Red Rocket. "Oh, and those Crams we found in Hubris Comics."

I look at him again. "We've come a long way from Goodneighbor, haven't we?"

Half of his mouth turns up in a smile. "I guess we have."

* * *

I shiver, despite the two blankets I have wrapped around me, and scoot even closer to the small fire pit in the center of the living room. 

MacCready looks over at me and frowns. He sits in an armchair in the corner of the room, away from the fire, one of his comics open in his lap. Apparently, he is his own space heater. "You're really that cold?"

Teeth chattering, I can only nod. There's no way I can sleep like this, and we're supposed to leave in the morning. I imagine myself stumbling through the Commonwealth, half asleep. It's not a good image. 

"Christ," he mutters, slapping his comic down on top of his backpack. He marches over to me, rips the blankets off, and whips off his coat. He drapes the rough, tattered material over my shoulders before sitting next to me, his thigh pressed against mine. He envelops us in the blankets, his arm coming around to hold my shoulders. "Better?"

I can't look at him. My cheeks are becoming my own space heater. "Y-yeah, thanks."

"Luckily for you, I run on the warmer side," he says. 

"Way to be a humble hero."

"I take credit when credit's given to me," he laughs. 

I find myself wanting to hear his laugh again. I also find myself leaning into his side. My cheek rests against his shoulder. 

He inhales deeply and exhales slowly. Then, he asks, "You think you can sleep sitting up?"

"Nope."

"Lie down, then."

I scowl at him. "You're not leaving me to freeze to death."

He rolls his eyes, pulling the blankets off of us. "I'm not. Jeez. Just lie down, Bug. Face the fire, too."

I do so, but not before stuffing my arms into the sleeves of his coat. He adjusts the blankets over us again before lying down next to me, his front pressed to my back. Tentatively, his arm reaches over me and stays there. 

I stare into the fire, trying to not work myself up over this. It's meaningless. He's trying to save me from hypothermia, and that's it. That's all it is, Bug. Nothing more, nothing less–

I feel his breath on the back of my neck when he says, "Bug?"

I start at the sensation. "Yeah?"

"I need to tell you something else."

"Let me guess: the Gunners aren't the worst of it. You were also part of the Brotherhood of Steel."

He chuckles quietly into the collar of his coat, but it stops short. After a lengthy pause, he says, "About the day we found the Railroad."

I think I know where this is going. "What about it?"

"You're not curious about... about Lucy?"

I shrug the shoulder that faces the ceiling, but yes, God, I'm so fucking curious. 

"I was married a while ago."

His confession feels like a physical impact in my gut. I have to force out my next word. "Really?" 

"Yeah." He clears his throat. "But, she, um–she died a couple years ago."

"Jesus." Then, I add, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he says. "I just–I thought I should explain. That must've been... a little weird."

"A little."

"I'm sorry about that, and I'm sorry I'm just now explaining."

"Oh. Well... there's really nothing for you to be sorry about."

"There's another thing, though."

I brace myself for his next confession. 

"We had a– _have_ a kid. A little boy."

This... has a bigger impact. 

" _What_?" I pause, trying to compose myself. "I mean–" I don't know what I mean. I feel like I should move away, put some distance between us. He's so many things I never would've thought he would be. A widower, a father, an ex-Gunner, possibly ex-Brotherhood– "What's his name?"

"His name's Duncan. He's four." MacCready's arm tightens around me. "He's back in the Capital Wasteland."

"Why isn't he with you?"

He hesitates. "I came here to make more caps, and my work isn't exactly the safest for a kid to be tagging along."

"Right." 

"I should've told you sooner. I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

" _Why_? We're partners. We should know things about each other."

"There are some things you don't know about me, Mac."

He doesn't respond right away. Finally, he prompts, "Like what?"

"I was mayor of a cave full of kids, too."

Again, there is a pause. Then, he guffaws, the force of it shaking my body as well. I can't but laugh, too.


	7. Chapter 7

It becomes real the moment the small encampment under the overpass comes into view. 

Beside me, Deacon's footsteps slow to a complete stop. The three of us drop into crouches as he says, "That's a helluva lotta Gunners, Mac."

"There's more up top," MacCready reminds him, pointing up, where a giant windmill towers on the overpass. "This is your last chance to head back home."

I'd like to abandon this mission. I really would. I'm so fucking scared. But, this is important to MacCready, so it's important to me. MacCready's shoulder brushes against mine, but I think it's unintentional. I allow myself to close my eyes and steel myself for the inevitable firefight. 

"No fucking way, man... That's a _really_ long way back, and we're already here, so..."

Despite the worm of fear wiggling in my gut, I chuckle. 

"We should try to bring them down from here," MacCready says, and I look at him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his hand poised over his shoulder as if to grab his rifle. "It's too open out here for close combat."

I take a look around. Cover does seem to be lacking. I clamp my fingers around Peashooter's grip to ground me. We can do this. There's not much we can't do together.

"Should we wait for more light?" I ask, looking at MacCready, since this is his deal. 

MacCready clears his throat. "We probably should, but the dark gives us a little bit of an advantage down here."

"Surprise party," Deacon says, cocking his shotgun. Even in the darkness, I can see his eyebrows wiggling over his sunglasses. "I like it. Mac? Would you like to kick it off?"

MacCready pulls his rifle over his shoulder, fixing his eye into the scope. "Ready?"

"Ready," Deacon and I say simultaneously, even though I'm lying. I've never been so not ready in my life. 

_Bang_. 

The ground-bound Gunners scramble, shouting at each other, shouting at us. 

We should've brought an army. This is such a terrible idea. 

Once four Gunners have been put down on the ground, ever-brave Deacon ventures closer, while MacCready and I deafen each other with our fire.

"Clear!" Deacon calls after a few more blasts of his shotgun. 

MacCready and I run into the encampment, aiming straight for the yellow-painted lift. He thumbs a red button. Deacon scrambles onto the platform just as it starts to rise.

"Stay down," MacCready instructs. It's unclear whether he's talking to me or Deacon or both of us. "Rumor has it that Barnes–one of the guys from Goodneighbor–got himself a set of power armor."

"Please, God, I hope not," Deacon says. 

I close my eyes once again to hope the same. 

"I mean, honestly, if you're worried about the Gunners up there, don't be. They couldn't kill a squirrel with a rocket launcher." 

Deacon laughs heartily, easing some tension. 

Someone hooks their pinky finger around mine–and I realize that Deacon stands on the other side of MacCready. I open my eyes and give MacCready a shocked look, but he's not looking at me. His eyes are skyward.

After a few moments, the lift clunks to a halt.

MacCready steps off first, his rifle lifted before him. Deacon and I trail after, our eyes on the two Gunners in the foreground. I try not to think of the fifteen behind them but am silently grateful that no one is in power armor. With his elbow, MacCready gently pushes me halfway behind a hollowed-out bus. 

"Ah, MacCready," one says, "'bout time."

"Barnes, Winlock," MacCready greets in the coldest fashion. A shiver goes down my spine when he says, "Any last words?"

"Bring it on," the other says.

On "on," a hole appears in his chest. MacCready is a quick son of a bitch when he needs to be. 

Deacon and I take our cue, pumping some Gunners full of lead. During a pause, Deacon grabs me by the elbow and steers me into cover behind a rusted car. I stumble at the suddenness of it and fall into his side. He rights me, smiles at me, then continues firing.

I whip around. MacCready remains out by the bus, firing around the corner of it. My heart thuds painfully and erratically against my ribcage. I thought he was on our heels. I don't know what I'd do if he got hurt or–I hate to think of it–killed.

I build myself up for a minute before throwing myself back into the fray. I come to MacCready's side, where he crouches behind the bus. 

"Bug!" he yells over the cacophony of gunfire. "Go back to–!"

"I'm not leaving you–"

"Go back to Deacon," he orders. 

I have no intention of leaving him out here by himself. "Just let me help you. That's what I'm here for, isn't it?"

"Bug, I swear to God–"

"Mac, don't tell me what to–" 

" _Please_."

I stare at him, stare into his pleading eyes. Somewhere behind me, Deacon's shotgun goes off twice. 

"No."

"God, Bug, I'm gonna ki–"

I don't know whether he was going to kill me or kiss me. All I know is that there is a Gunner right behind him, handgun at the ready. Without thinking, I shove him to the side just before the Gunner pulls the trigger.

I'm hit. 

I slam into the pavement and stay there. I can't even roll over onto my back. I'm scared that my insides will fall out through this gaping hole in my stomach. My free hand closes over the wound and finds it not as wide as I thought. How can something so small hurt so badly? How could it kill me?

MacCready's rifle goes off above me.

"Butterfly!" I hear Deacon bellow over the gunfire. 

My arm extends, Peashooter shaking violently in my hand. I try to aim, try to find someone to aim at, but can't. The edges of everything are blurring and swirling into a vortex. 

Is this dying? 

Suddenly, the firing stops, and I feel myself being flipped over. An arm scoops underneath my head. 

"C'mon, Butterfly," Deacon says, laughing slightly. It's a nervous laugh, a panicked laugh. "Mac, _exit wound_."

"I'm looking, I'm looking," MacCready says from somewhere very far away. From even farther away, I feel hands scrambling around under me, feeling around the skin of my back.

"Look at me." Deacon lowers his sunglasses to the tip of his nose–and I'm trapped in his ice-blue gaze. "Yeah, you've never seen these baby-blues before, have ya, Butterfly? Mesmerizing, right?"

Despite the pain and the blood pouring out of me, I laugh breathily. "D-don't make me laugh."

"Sorry, sorry." His lips curve into a tight smile, but I see the panic clearly outlined in the way he looks into my eyes. "Just keep looking at me, okay? It'll be okay. Mac?"

"No exit wound," MacCready replies, his voice eerily steady. 

"Fuck. Okay. We're okay." Deacon's arm tightens around my neck, the fingers of his other hand finding mine and weaving all ten digits together. "We're okay, Butterfly. You've lived through too much to die like this, right? Keep looking at me. Don't look away. Nothin' out there that's better-looking than me, I promise."

I nod weakly and try my best to keep my eyes on his. I drag in a shaky breath and say, "Deacon–"

That's when I feel something digging around in the torn flesh that is the gunshot wound. I gasp, and Deacon's hand closes firmly around my mouth to muffle my scream. He keeps a big smile on his face, but his eyes give too much away: He's terrified. 

And he says, "It's okay, it's okay. It's almost over."

And MacCready says, "Stimpak, Deacon, stimpak."

They search hurriedly through our packs, Deacon keeping a firm grip on me. 

A sharp pain, directly in the bullet hole. 

The pain wanes into heavy throbbing. I'm left gasping in Deacon's arms and sobbing into his doctor's coat. That was too close. That was way too close. 

"It's okay, it's okay," he murmurs, rocking me gently. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. "You made it, Butterfly. You did it."

I can't stop crying, can't stop reliving the moment over and over. I took a bullet for him, and I should be dead right now. Dead in Deacon's arms.

"Bug," MacCready says, pulling me back to the present. 

I calm myself down enough to turn my face out of Deacon's chest. The merc's face looks conflicted, his mouth open to say something. I took a bullet for that face. 

Then, he says, "Bug" again, his voice breaking–and he pulls me from Deacon's grasp to hold me close in the same position. He presses his face into my hair, and I hear Deacon shuffle away to give us some space. "God _dammit_."

"Sorry," I mumble into his scarf, closing my eyes against the rough material. 

"It's okay. You're okay," he whispers, but I think he's trying to comfort himself and not me. His quivering fingers have a secure hold on the back of my head. My hand comes up to squeeze his elbow reassuringly. My tears soak into his scarf. _Too close_.

"We should get under cover for the night," Deacon suggests, his voice low. 

"Can you stand?" MacCready asks, his breath tickling my ear.

"Yeah, I think so," I say, pulling away from him. I wipe my eyes before attempting to get to my feet. Fatigue buckles my knees. MacCready catches me before I fall. 

"I can carry you," he offers. 

"No, I'm... I'm okay." My side hurts like hell, but I manage to move one foot in front of the other until I'm standing before Deacon, who has his sunglasses plastered back to his face. "Which shack looks the nicest, Deac?"

He smiles faintly as he reaches for me. He loops an arm around my waist and helps me to the closest shack. The only furnishings are a shelving unit, three beds, and a glowing lantern. He gently lays me down on the bed closest to the shelf, MacCready lurking in the shadows behind him. The mercenary stares down at me, his brows pulled together. 

"What time are we leaving in the morning?" I ask, applying pressure to the throbbing in my side with my fist. 

"Don't worry about that," Deacon says, smoothing my sweaty hair off my sweaty forehead. "Just get some sleep, kiddo. We'll wake you up when it's time to go."

I scowl at him. "I should be fine by dawn."

"It's almost dawn now," MacCready points out, his arms folded over his chest. "You need time to recover."

"If I'm not up when the sun comes up, kick me where I got shot. That'll get me going."

The men stare at me. 

"Joking. Jeez." I chuckle–but they don't.

Deacon reaches out and places his hand over my eyes. "Shh. Sleepy time."

I swat his hand away and instantly regret it. It feels like the newly-grown skin is going to rip open. I groan, pressing my fist back to the site. 

"Jesus Christ. I'm gonna go look around." With that, MacCready turns on his heel and marches back toward the other end of the battle zone. 

I look back to Deacon, who is frowning. "What?"

"You coulda died," he states.

"I don't want to think about that anymore."

He sighs. "Just get some sleep, okay? We'll move out when you're feeling better. And, not when you're lying about feeling better. I can tell when you're lying."

"Right."

He touches my arm, then crawls into the bed closest to mine, turning off the lantern as he goes. "I'll be right here if you need me." He flops down onto his stomach, wig and sunglasses firmly in place.

I want to roll over onto my stomach, but I'm seriously afraid I'll rip a new hole in my torso. So, I lie there for a while, trying to stay awake for MacCready's return. He doesn't come back for a really long time, though. I end up staring up at the metal roofing until my eyelids finally slide closed.

* * *

I huff and puff, the heel of my hand jammed into the site of my wound as I trundle along behind the men. "So, we're all in agreement, right?"

"About what, again?" Deacon asks, looking over his shoulder at me. 

"That we're not telling Hancock or the Survivor about the little incident last night," I say. "Especially not Hancock."

"Why's that, again?"

"He'll try to force me to stay with him," I tell him, stepping over a fallen tree in the path, "and I do not feel like sitting in a dirt patch with him for hours upon hours every day."

"Alright, my lips are sealed."

"Thank you. MacCready?"

I watch as his shoulders rise up to his ears and then fall.

"Mac, I need your word."

"What does my word matter?"

"Mac, please."

"I'm not gonna tell 'em. God."

I stare hard at the back of his head, but I can't tell much from it. "Thank you." 

He doesn't respond. 

I need to talk to him in private. I need to ask him why he's so mad at me. Is it because I got shot? In that case, I ought to be mad at him tenfold. It still doesn't make sense, though. It's not like I did it on purpose. 

We stop for the night a little while after the sun goes down, when the only light comes from the moon. 

"Ooh, look," Deacon says as we slow down to look for shelter. He points down the hill at a dilapidated structure toward the road. "Home for the night?"

"I'll check it out," MacCready says. 

"You do that. I have to pee."

"Make it quick." 

Deacon scurries off into the woods, and I'm left standing awkwardly next to MacCready. I should ask him what's bothering him now, while I have a chance–

"I'm gonna go check out that building," MacCready says, nodding at the building. "Stay here and wait for Deacon."

"Don't tell me what to do," I joke, trying to be familiar. I reach out to playfully punch him in the arm. 

But, the look in MacCready's eyes is not jovial. He grabs my wrist before my fist can make contact. "Stop it."

My stomach twists as I glance down at his hand wrapped around my wrist. I thought we were to the point of joking around. I thought we were friends now, instead of just partners assigned together by the Survivor. I thought I could joke past whatever mistake I made last night. "What?"

"Whatever _this_ "–he makes a back-and-forth movement with his other hand in the space between us–"is, it needs to stop. I don't want this to..." He exhales sharply through his nose. "Just stop it, Bug."

"I thought we were..." Whatever I thought was wrong.

"We are not friends," he practically hisses, leaning close. "We're partners, and that's it. The only reason I'm here is for the caps."

All I can think of is leftover bottle caps placed into my pile. "Mac, I–"

He lets go of my wrist and stalks away before I can finish.

"Hold the fuck on!" I yell, suddenly incensed. "Don't walk away from me!"

He keeps walking, then jogging when he reaches the downward slope of the hill. 

"Fuck you, too, then!" I sit heavily, seething. Embarrassingly enough, hot tears spring into my eyes. _God dammit_. 

"What's going on?" Deacon asks a couple minutes later, when he returns from whatever bush he just desecrated. "I heard yelling."

"Nothing," I say, though my voice cracks a little. I turn my face away from him to wipe at tears. I really don't need him to see me cry. 

His voice comes from right behind me, a concerned softness to it: "Butterfly?" 

I don't respond. Just turn my face forward, trying to make out MacCready searching around in the darkness. I can't.

"Did he do something?" he asks. "Did he hurt you?"

Yes, he did. "No, he didn't. I'm fine."

He sits down next to me. "Are you sure? You know you can talk to me, right?"

"Yeah." I see MacCready's shadow moving back toward us. "Thanks."

He throws an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. "See? I'm not such an ass when you get to know me."

"That's debatable, since I don't really know you, Deacon."

His response is a wide, knowing grin.

* * *

When we get back to Sanctuary, I ditch Deacon and MacCready and seek out the Survivor. I find her where she usually is, by the workbenches and the power armor workstations. She stands at the weapons bench, crafting a modification for her rifle. Hancock leans against the wall next to her, talking to her. She laughs at something he says, and his face lights up. 

He notices me approaching and stands up straight. "Hey, Bug. How'd it go?"

"Uh, fine, I guess." My eyes lock with the Survivor's. "Can I talk to you?"

She seems taken by surprise. "Yeah, of course. What's–?"

"In private."

Hancock scowls. He doesn't like to get left out of things. "What's going on?"

"Hancock–"

"John," the Survivor says, and he looks at her. They share some kind of meaningful look, and then he nods once, touching my shoulder as he passes by me.

The Survivor abandons her rifle and turns to lean her behind against the bench. Genuine concern paints her face. "What's going on, Bug?"

There's no easy way to say it, so I just fucking say it. "I don't want to work with MacCready anymore."

Shock replaces concern. "I thought you two worked well together..." She gasps, her expression steadily becoming fierce. "Did he hurt you?"

Why does everyone jump to that conclusion? Is it that obvious? 

"No, I just... don't want to work with him anymore." And, that's all I'll say. Hopefully, she'll accept that.

She studies my face for a few moments, then says, "Okay... I trust your judgement. Are you okay with Deacon, though?"

"Deacon's great," I say, relief flooding through me. "Thank you."

"No problem at all. Just let Deacon know that nothing's really changing. You'll still be working on helping settlements, just without MacCready. " She looks to her right, where MacCready leans against the front side of a house a little ways down the street, a lit cigarette smoking between his fingers. "Hey, MacCready! C'mere for a minute."

MacCready looks up at her. His eyes flick to me, then back to the Survivor. He reaches to tap his cigarette out on the side of the house before he starts toward us.

"I'm gonna..." I thrust my thumb over my shoulder. I don't want to be near him right now. "Gonna find Deacon."

"Yeah, you do that," she says. "I'm gonna ream this joker's ass out for ya."

I fight a smile. "Thanks, Sole."

She gives me a smile accompanied by a warm, one-armed hug. 

I seek out Deacon now. Finding him is a little difficult, because he's likely changed outfits, and I do not see those sunglasses anywhere. Finally, I find him in the common area, having a drink with some of the settlers. His doctor's coat has been replaced with a plain flannel shirt and jeans, and his pompadour is gone. As always, the sunglasses remain glued to his face. 

"Deacon," I say when I reach him, leaning down to speak lowly in his ear, "a word, please."

He turns his head and raises an orange eyebrow. "Is this about you and MacCready? Because, I've gotta say, I do not want to have this talk with you. Maybe talk to Hancock. He's more... experienced–and more willing to help."

"What? No, gross. Not that kind of talk." I pinch the flannel that lines his arm and give a gentle tug. "It's about MacCready, but it's not _that_. Just come with me."

"Thank God." He throws back whatever alcohol is left in his glass before following me to some privacy behind a nearby house. "What's up?"

"MacCready won't be accompanying us anymore," I say. "So, it's just you and me until the Survivor says otherwise."

"Really?" He stares at me, but I can't tell if I'm meeting his eyes or not. I suppose that's the point of those sunglasses. "Why's that? Because of the yelling last night?"

I pull in a deep breath and let it out. "Yeah. That's why."

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" 

"You don't tell me everything, do you?"

He hesitates. "You know the answer to that."

"Yeah, so, I don't have to tell you everything, either."

His lips purse, but he's nodding. "Fair point, Butterfly. You'd make one hell of a spy."

"Thanks, I think." 

He chuckles. "Anyway, we should hit the hay. Got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"It can't be later than six o'clock."

"Hey, you got shot. Aren't you tired?"

"Shh!" I throw a wary glance around to make sure no one overheard. "Do not say any combination of those words again, okay? Think of Hancock. He's probably got a bad heart from being old and–well, the chems."

Deacon snickers. "I got it, kid. Mum's the word."

"Seriously, Deacon, I'm being serious."

"Seriously, Butterfly, I get it."

I point a finger at him. "Don't make me regret trusting you."

"Hey, I can keep a secret, okay? Besides, it's not me you have to worry about–"

From across the settlement, Hancock's voice can be heard bellowing: " _What_?!" 

Deacon looks up, as if he felt an unexpected raindrop, then down at me. "Maybe you should run."

I do, doing my damned best to ignore the pain in my side. I sprint across Sanctuary, aiming for the bridge. My goal is to reach the Red Rocket and hide out there. A few settlers stop whatever they're doing to watch me, and I do my best to ignore them, too. They're even nosier than me. 

Running through the water to throw Hancock off my scent briefly crosses my mind, but I decide against it right before my feet hit the rickety planks of the bridge; I don't want to get my socks wet–and he's not a scent-tracking animal.

"Bug!" Hancock hollers somewhere behind me. " _Bug_!"

I pound the pavement, careening toward the Red Rocket. My goal now is to curl up underneath the desk in the Survivor's bedroom. 

As I reach the lot–construction underway in the back for more space for the Survivor's other friends and companions–I hear rapid footsteps catching up with me. Damn these short legs. 

"Bug!" Hancock yells. "Dammit, kid, stop!"

I stupidly whirl around and try to play it off. "Oh, hey, Hancock. How's you?"

"Why did I just hear from the merc that you got shot on a mission you were doing for _him_?"

"I'd like to start with the fact that you knew exactly where I was going and exactly who I was going with," I say, trying to line up my defense before he can knock it aside with a flick of his wrist. "My getting shot was an accident and nobody's fault but the Gunner who shot me."

Hancock slaps a hand to his face before shoving it up under his hat. "I can't believe this. I can't believe you didn't tell me."

"I didn't want you to worry," I say. "But, as you can see, I'm alive and okay."

He regards me for a few moments before saying, "I see that, yes. But... I thought we agreed to tell each other everything."

"I don't recall ever agreeing to that."

"Silent agreement."

"I don't recall."

He sighs, briefly closing his eyes. "Where were you going to run?"

"I was gonna hide under the Survivor's desk," I admit.

"And, you thought I wasn't gonna find you there?"

"I'm not the best at thinking on my feet with an angry, mayoral ghoul charging after me."

He sighs again. "And, what did you want to talk to Viv about?"

My eyebrow spikes halfway up my forehead. "Viv?"

His black eyes widen. "Oh, uh, I mean... the Survivor."

"You're on a first-name basis with her?"

"No, of course not."

"You _just_ called her Viv, though."

"Okay, okay. I'll drop it if you drop it."

"Thank you."

"But, it's about the merc, isn't it?"

I inhale deeply and exhale, "Yes. He's an asshole. And, the Survivor?"

"She calls me John, too. She's an angel."

I smile up at him. "Have you kissed her yet?"

"No, not yet, but I'm working on it." He smiles, too, then hooks his arm around my neck and leads me back to Sanctuary. "What about Deacon? Is he being a perfect gentleman? Or, am I gonna have to put him _and_ the merc through finishing school?"

"He's nice enough," I assure him. "Nowhere near as horrible as MacCready."

"You ever gonna tell me what happened?"

"It's not important."

"Hmm. Well, how's about coming along with Vi–the Survivor and me for a mission? Y'know. Take a break from helping out settlements."

"What mission?" 

"The Survivor got wind of this museum over in Salem that might be haunted." He scoffs, since he doesn't believe in that kind of stuff. "We're just gonna take a look around, make sure everything's in order." He shrugs. "I thought it sounded like something you'd be interested in."

"Haunted museum? Count me in."


	8. Chapter 8

I try to avoid MacCready while the Survivor and Hancock prepare for our long trip east. I spend that time drinking or playing cards with Deacon in the Red Rocket. MacCready patrols Sanctuary with Preston, so he's largely out of my sight. Once every couple of hours, he ventures down this way, looks around, and goes back to the settlement. 

One such afternoon, a few days after MacCready told me off for trying to be his friend, I sit with Deacon while rain pitter-patters against the roof. He shuffles the worn deck of cards and says, "Major rule of the game: You gotta get four of a kind for it to be laid down."

"I know how 'Go Fish' works, Deacon."

He starts dealing out the cards. "Hey, some people only do two of a kind."

Right as I pick up my cards, Dogmeat starts barking outside. 

Deacon bolts out of his chair. If he weren't sitting against the wall, the chair would have tipped over. He grabs his shotgun off the counter as he heads out front. 

I follow behind, more curious than afraid, since Dogmeat usually growls if it's someone who wants to kill us.

Deacon stands out in the lot, shotgun dangling in his hand at his side. He looks toward the road. "Hey, Mac!"

I follow Deacon's gaze, and, sure enough, it is MacCready. I fold my arms over my stomach. He knows I'm avoiding him, so why's he here?

"Hey, Deacon," MacCready says. In one of his hands, he holds a leather pouch that looks pretty heavy. He looks past Deacon to peer into the building. "Where's–? Oh." 

"Hi," I say to him.

"Bug, I–" He stops himself, casting a nervous look toward Deacon. When he looks back at me, he continues, "I need to talk to you."

"About what? The severed head in your bag?"

MacCready glances down at the pouch, then rolls his eyes. "Just–c'mon."

I raise an eyebrow at him, and then I look to Deacon. He shrugs. 

"Okay," I say. I exit through the front door and follow MacCready over to the Nuka-Cola billboard. After watching us for a moment, Deacon heads back inside. 

We stand in the gap between the hedges, under the billboard. Here, we only get slightly wet. 

"So," I say, folding my arms over my chest, "what do you want?"

"To give you this." He thrusts the pouch at me, and I have no choice but to accept it. 

I loosen the tie and peer inside. I look back at him, my eyes open wide. "What...?"

"Peashooter's a ten millimeter, right?" he asks, his cheeks burning red. 

"Well... yeah." I look back into the bag. There has to be at least fifty rounds in it. "Where did you get them?"

"I've been collecting them," he says. After a beat, he tacks on, "For you. I use three-oh-eight."

"Why?"

"Can't you just accept it and move on?"

"I want to know what you're doing."

"What do you mean, what I'm doing? Do I need to have an ulterior motive?"

"No, but I know you have one."

He glares at me for a long, tense moment, and then he turns away, heading down the hill, toward Concord.

"Where are you going?" I demand. 

"For a walk."

"Why do you always walk away from me?" 

He doesn't respond, so I set down the ammo and start down the hill as well. I'm not letting him walk away from me this time. 

He whirls around, raindrops flinging off the brim of his cap. "What are you doing?"

I stop short, my boots skidding in the mud. "Coming with you. It's dangerous."

"Concord is a ghost town. Leave me alone." He starts again, but I rush down the hill, slide on the mud, and slam into him, knocking us both down. "God dam–darn it, Bug," he growls, trying to shove me off him. 

"I'm sorry," I say, blinking water out of my eyes. No use; it just keeps on coming. "I'm really sorry."

"For what? Interrogating me or pushing me down?"

"Both." I struggle to get off him–and fall into a mud puddle. This could not get any worse. 

"Jesus Christ." He manages to get onto his knees, and then he pulls me up onto mine. And, quite suddenly, he leans in, his eyes closing. I impulsively close the distance between us. His hands hold my back, hold me securely to him. For a while, I don't know what to do with my hands. Then, they act on their own, winding around his neck. The brim of his hat keeps the rain off our faces.

I don't know how much time passes before I'm out of breath and have to pull away. My knee slides, but his arms are still around me, still keeping me pressed to him.

"My ulterior motive," he says, his face mere inches from mine, "was to keep you safe."

I can't look away from his eyes, but I can't say anything either. 

"I..." He inhales deeply, his eyes closing. "When we were coming back from the Interchange, the things I said... I didn't mean them." He opens his eyes again and searches mine for a reaction. I believe I'm disappointing him by not reacting, but... he just kissed me, for God's sake. "You almost died because of me, and–and I realized I'd gotten too close to you. I cared too much... I didn't want another..." He trails off and bites his lip. "Do you get what I'm trying to say?"

"Yeah." He didn't want to get close to me. If something happened to me, it'd hurt him. "I get it."

He smiles slightly, and then it's gone. "I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you."

I scoff, and then grin. "You'd be just fine, Mac."

"I'm not so sure anymore."

The grin slips off my face. He's not being dramatic. He's being serious. 

"Wow" is all I can say. 

"I'm sorry," he says, frowning. 

"For what?"

"For–I dunno–being emotional."

I scoff again. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"You know... Don't be stupid."

"Stupid?" One of his eyebrows arches. "I'll show you 'stupid.'" With that, he presses his mouth to mine again. 

I inhale sharply in surprise but quickly melt back into him, my hands coming off his shoulders to rip off his hat and grasp his hair. 

He pulls away this time, breathing hard as he presses his forehead to my shoulder. "God."

I stare over his shoulder, dazed. "God?"

"God," he confirms. He lifts his head, then reaches to grab his hat out of my hand. He fits the sodden cap over his sodden hair. "We should probably get out of the mud."

"Oh." I remember where we are now. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

He gets up first, then holds his hand out to me to help me to my feet. "Did you get hurt when you rammed into me?"

"No," I chuckle. "Did you?"

He smiles down at me, pulling me up the hill. "Not at all."

I stumble over a big rock set into the dirt, but he holds onto my hand tight enough to keep me on my feet. "Good. Sorry again."

"Don't worry about it." He pulls me through the gap in the hedges, where he steals another kiss. 

I look up at him, a question resting on the tip of my tongue: What does this mean? But, I can't bring myself to ask and potentially ruin the moment. 

He smiles, squeezes my hand, and lets go. He heads back to Sanctuary, and I watch him until he's out of sight. 

When I turn toward the Red Rocket, I freeze. The top half of Deacon's face is visible in the window. 

"Oh, God," I say to myself as he stands, revealing his slack jaw. 

His head whips toward the road to Sanctuary, then back to me. If he'd been wearing his wig, it would have flown off. He makes a vague, confused gesture with his hands. 

I want to crawl into a hole and die.

"What's the matter?" I call, collecting the ammo and starting toward him. 

He makes the gesture again, but bigger and even more confused. 

"Use your words, Deac."

When I get to him, he finally says, "What the hell was that?"

Feigning innocence seems to be the best course of action. "What was what?"

He makes a kissy face and points behind me, at the billboard. A third time, he makes the gesture. 

"I don't know what you mean." I crawl in through the window, shedding my jacket on the counter and leaving the bag of ammo there, too. I take my seat at the table again and pick up my cards, fanning them out in my hand. "Where were we?"

"You're not gonna explain?"

"There's nothing to explain?" I counter, looking up at him as he circles around the table. 

He plops down in his chair, leaning far over the table. "You and Mac just kissed?" 

"No?"

"Yes, you did?"

"Why are we talking like this?"

"Answer the question?"

"Christ, Deacon."

He leans back, studying me through his tinted lenses. "Alright. I don't wanna know, anyway."

I roll my eyes. "Any twos?"

He picks up his cards, looks at them for half a second, and slaps them back down. "Alright. I wanna know. You two were just fighting the other day, and now you're not?"

"You're such a gossip," I say.

"It's not gossip if I'm getting it from the source."

I open my mouth to argue, but there really isn't an argument for that, so I close it.

"Yeah, so, spill."

"I'm not really sure what's going on," I say, because that's the truth.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "But, you did kiss, right?"

"You saw it, didn't you?"

"Yes. Yes, I did." He scratches at his chin. "He didn't say why?"

"Nope," I lie, making sure to stare directly into his sunglasses.

The corner of his mouth twitches. He picks up his cards again. "Oh, look-y here. I do have a two."

* * *

Night is just pouring over the Commonwealth when we get to Salem. Mist swirls around our feet as we kick through it. Dogmeat leads the way, the Survivor several yards behind him with Hancock in step beside her. Deacon and I bring up the rear, marching a few feet behind them.

"Ooh, ominous!" Deacon says. "Admittedly, though, it'd be scarier if you didn't blare that music, Boss."

The Survivor casually raises the volume on her Pip-Boy, throwing a smile and a wink at Deacon over her shoulder. 

Deacon grins back at her, then raises his voice to sing loudly along: " _The grass is the springiest, the bees are the stingiest, the birds are the wingiest, the bells are the ringiest_!"

"Okay, Deac, we get it," Hancock says.

Deacon inhales deeply and continues on one breath, " _The sun's the blaziest, the fields the daisiest, the_ –!"

"Knock it off, baldy," I interrupt.

Hancock cackles as Deacon shoots me a look.

Before he can say anything, the Survivor points ahead. "There's the museum." She jogs ahead to try the front door. 

Of course it's locked. 

"Of course it's locked!" she exclaims, turning to face us. "Let's see if there's another way in."

She leads us around the building and stops short. I bump into her back, and she reaches behind her to steady me. I look past her to see what she stopped short at.

A fresh body lies near a cellar door.

"Hm," Hancock hums, folding his arms over his chest. "That ain't good."

"What ain't–? Oh," Deacon says as the Survivor marches forward. "I can already tell this is going to go great."

"Shh," I hiss, following close behind the Survivor.

She leans down and pats down the body. "Holotape," she announces, holding up the orange rectangle for us to see. She pops it into her Pip-Boy and hits play as we crowd around her.

A feminine voice comes through. _"Jefferies! Lee got the recorder working. So, this the sorta detail you had in mind when you signed up for the Gunners? Hauling luggage from Lynn Woods for some robot butler? What was his name? Welliton? Wellingham?"_

A masculine voice says, _"Not now, Private. Where's Connors? He's not at his post."_

_"Oh, uh, sorry, sir. The lieutenant said he'd found some tracks. Wanted to check them out. Private Martin–"_

_"Tracks? What track–? What the hell is that?"_

_"Oh, my... C-Connors! Where... where's the rest of him?"_

_"Jesus. It found us. Sergeant Lee, grab the case! Do not let that thing out of your sight! Everyone, inside the museum! Now!"_

_"Major! Major! What found us?!"_

The recording cuts off.

The four of us stand in complete silence, staring at the Survivor's Pip-Boy.

"Um... that ain't good," I quote from Hancock. 

The Survivor throws a glance around the circle, turning off the Pip-Boy's radio. "Uh, whatever's in there is probably not going to be very pleasant. Are we all sure we want to go in?"

Deacon, Hancock, and I all look at each other. Then, we nod. 

"Okay. Let's do this, then." She steps over to the cellar doors, and Hancock rushes over to help her.

Deacon and I share another look. He nods once. I nod once. We follow the Survivor into the basement. 

She clicks on her Pip-Boy's flashlight, which just makes the screen brighter and turns everything green. All of us crouched for stealth–even Dogmeat–we press further in. Mannequins–missing an arm here, a leg there–are scattered throughout the space, as well as broken display cases, trash, dirt, leaves. Standard post-apocalypse stuff.

We climb the stairs to the main level without incident. However, as we move to climb a second set of stairs, something heavy shifts above us, sending dust floating down upon us. 

We halt. Dogmeat's hackles rise, but he doesn't growl. No, he doesn't want to alarm whatever the thing up there is. He's such a good boy.

Deacon's hand shoots out and snaps around my forearm in a death grip. "What was that?"

"Jesus, Deac," I whisper, trying to pry his fingers off. It's impossible. He's got fingers of steel. 

"Guys, shush," the Survivor says. "Dogmeat and I are gonna go up and see what it is. You guys wait here."

"You're insane," Deacon says to her.

"Cool it. I'll be back in a jiffy." She starts for the stairs.

Hancock reaches out and grabs her wrist. "You sure about this, Viv?"

"Please, John," she says, smiling confidently, "it'll be a piece of cake."

He stares at her, his mouth open slightly as if to say something. But, he shakes his head, then nods. All he says is "Please be careful."

"I will." She and Dogmeat creep up the stairs. 

I settle onto my behind to wait, though Peashooter is already resting in my hand. 

Hancock backs up to sit next to me. Deacon will not relax, though, and neither will his hold on my arm. He remains crouched next to me, one foot poised in front of the other, in case he needs to bolt.

"What do you think it is?" I ask them, keeping my eyes on the stairs.

"Ferals," Hancock says at the same time Deacon says, "Ghosts."

"You believe in ghosts?" I ask Deacon.

"I didn't used to," he replies, his fingers digging harder into my arm.

Hancock gives a sputtering laugh. "No such thing as ghosts, man."

"Tell that to the ghost upstairs."

The Survivor returns, then, with Dogmeat right behind her. "Okay, we're leaving."

Hancock and I get back onto our feet at the sight of her.

Hancock starts. "What? Why?" 

"Let's just say, it's not something we should handle if we can help it."

"What is it, Viv?" he urges.

"Deathclaw."

My blood runs cold. 

Deacon almost snaps my arm clean off. "D-Deathclaw?" The terror in his voice startles me. This mission has shown me a side of him I never knew existed. "You gotta be joking, Boss."

"I'm not. We're leav–"

A roar rises up from the level above us.

"Go!" she hollers, giving me a shove. "Run!"

My feet move before my brain can catch up. Some corner of my brain realizes that Deacon still clings to me, but he's pulling me along, since his legs are longer and move faster.

We don't even make it to the stairs before the Deathclaw thunders down to our floor. 

There is no flight now, only fight. 

"Fire!" the Survivor barks, pulling a couple grenades from her belt. She rips the pins out with her teeth and throws them. 

The explosions are deafening, but my finger lays relentlessly on Peashooter's trigger. The grenades blew off a couple of the Deathclaw's toes. God, if it wasn't angry before, it's sure as hell angry now.

Hancock and Deacon pound the Deathclaw with shotgun shells, but it seems like that only angers it even more. 

"Stay away from its claws!" the Survivor yells. "And, don't clump together!" 

We scatter, Deacon finally releasing my arm. 

"Dogmeat, distract it!" 

Dogmeat–brave, valiant Dogmeat–doesn't even hesitate before jumping into action, barking at the hulking creature and running around it. 

The Survivor finally pulls out her hunting rifle. I have to pause to reload, using the bullets MacCready gave to me. I'm so very thankful that I shoved the front pockets of my jeans, as well as a few outer pockets of my backpack, full of them before we left. 

The Deathclaw swipes at Dogmeat, but the pup is quick on his feet and manages to dodge the horrifically long claws. Hancock and Deacon pump their shotguns. Hancock smartly aims for the feet while Deacon also smartly aims for the face. 

When I raise my pistol next, I also aim for the face. 

A few seconds into the barrage, the Deathclaw roars again, sending every hair on my body on end. It whirls around, locks on to Hancock, and charges.

"No!" I scream as the Survivor books it across the room. 

She slams into Hancock, driving both of them into an empty bookcase right as the Deathclaw takes another swing. They tumble to the floor. The claws narrowly miss them. 

It towers over them, poised to strike again.

A hatless and seemingly fearless Hancock rolls over onto his back, cocks his shotgun, and fires it into the Deathclaw's face.

The Deathclaw throws its head back and wails. I take the opportunity to reload again. 

"Holy _fuck_!" Deacon yells somewhere to my left. "Move, move, _move_!"

Hancock and the Survivor scramble to their feet and hurry to Deacon's side of the room. All of us fire into the Deathclaw's back while it paws at its face. When it turns around, its scaly snout is covered in blood, an eyeball missing and half of the skin ripped away by the blast. 

The Survivor throws two more grenades. 

When they go off, the explosions rip off the Deathclaw's right leg. Unable to keep its balance, it falls face-first to the ground, where it scratches at the floor. The motions dig deep grooves into the wood.

"Keep going! Keep firing!" the Survivor orders. "We almost got it!"

About thirty more rounds later, the Deathclaw finally collapses.

Dead. It's dead.

I gasp, dropping Peashooter and hunching over to brace my hands on my knees. I drag in shallow breaths at first, then deep, calming breaths. I feel hands on my back. Three of them, actually. When I straighten, I find three of my four partners standing around me. The fourth pushes his wet nose against the back of my hand and looks up at me expectantly. I oblige him by patting his head.

"You okay, kiddo?" Hancock asks, bending over to grab Peashooter from the floor. He offers it to me. 

I can't speak, so I nod and accept the pistol. 

"Was that your first Deathclaw?" the Survivor asks. When I look up at her, I see concern sketched across her features. 

I nod again. 

"Well, you did awesomely," she assures me, squeezing my shoulder. 

I give her a small, appreciative smile.

"Hey, Deac, can you grab my hat?" Hancock asks, pointing to the place he lost it, where the Survivor pushed him to the ground. 

"Sure, Mr. Mayor." Deacon breaks away from the group, but not before patting me on the back and giving me a winning smile. His cool facade has been thrown back up. 

Hancock turns to the Survivor, then. He pulls her to him by her waist and says, "You are magnificent." 

Her eyes widen at the compliment, but that doesn't stop Hancock from inclining his head to kiss her. She reacts as I'm sure he'd hoped, winding her arms around his neck and tilting her head to deepen the kiss.

When Hancock pulls away, the Survivor's face is flushed. I can tell even in the green light. "Jeez, John. You oughta warn me next time."

"Sorry, sunshine," he says, his voice husky, his face still very close to hers. "Coming in for another one." And, he leans even closer. 

I guess this is where I should give them some privacy. I go over to where Deacon stands, staring open-mouthed at the lovebirds. 

"Jesus, do you always make that face when you see people kiss?" I ask with a laugh. 

His mouth snaps shut, and he looks down at me. "Shut up." He fits Hancock's hat over his wig and goes back to looking at them. "I think they make a cute, if a little weird, couple."

"Yeah," I say, taking another look at them, "I think so, too."

* * *

"So, there are three Deathclaws, right?" Deacon has his hands spread, telling the Sanctuary settlers a roughly spun tale of what occurred in Salem. "One of them grabs me around the middle, lifts me up, and Bug–You guys know Bug, right? Hancock's kid? Anyway, yeah, she kills the one that's got me with one shot. It falls over; I bump my head. Next thing I know, the Survivor's got another one in a headlock. Hancock's got the third one cornered with just a knife, and you can just tell by the look on the thing's face that it's fearing for its life..."

I shake my head, grinning into my bowl of noodles. 

That's when MacCready shows up, looking like he's the one that just faced a Deathclaw.

His eyes dart across the recreation area. I assume he's searching for me, so I raise a hand. His gaze settles on me, relief evident on his face. He strides over to me, pulls me out of my seat and into a hug. He doesn't say anything for a long while. People start to stare. 

I pull away from him and nod toward the road. He gets the hint and grabs my noodles and Nuka-Cola before heading for the road. I follow him to one of the unoccupied houses. We sit on the couch, and he sets my food down on the coffee table in front of us. 

"So, you're alive," he notes. 

"Uh, yep." I have to laugh at the obviousness of it as I pull my legs up to sit cross-legged. "What clued you in?"

"Well, you still got all your limbs." He pushes his hat back on his head and slumps down so he can rest his head on the back of the couch. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah, so am I." I reach for my bowl and twirl my fork in the noodles. 

He looks over at me as I shove noodles into my mouth. "Nobody else was hurt, were they?"

I swallow. "No, thank goodness."

"Good, good."

We fall into silence, the only sound coming from me slurping noodles.

"Bug?" he says once I've finished and reach for my Nuka-Cola. 

I pause, glance at him, then grab the bottle. "Yeah?"

"Um..." His face turns red. "Never mind."

"What?" I ask, turning in my place to face him. "So glad to see me that you can't remember what you were going to say?"

"Yep, you caught me." He holds up his hands in surrender. 

"Hm, I thought so." I lift the bottle and take a sip of warm soda. "Seriously, though. What were you going to say?"

"I was going to say that..." He clears his throat, eyes cast to the ceiling. "I was going to say that I'm glad I gave you that ammo before you went."

"Oh. That wasn't what you were going to say, was it?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "That obvious, huh?"

"Yeah."

He looks at me again, biting his bottom lip. "Can I kiss you again?"

My heart thumps in my throat. "You–you didn't ask last time."

"No, I didn't. I'm sorry about that."

"Well... there's nothing to apologize for."

We hold eye contact for a few moments, and then he leans over. He stops, his lips so very close to mine, and says, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," I breathe, though I wish I hadn't. My breath probably smells like noodles.

He smiles a little, his eyes half-closed, and he kisses me.


	9. Chapter 9

The Survivor steps into her power armor, and it closes around her in the safest hug she'll ever receive. "Ready to go, John?"

"Yes, indeed, sunshine," Hancock replies, slinging his shotgun across his back. 

MacCready, Deacon, and I stand close by, watching them prepare for their trip to the Glowing Sea. The Survivor told us a couple of days ago, the day after returning from Salem, that she wanted to start trying to find the Institute again. She'd taken enough of a break, she said. She wants to dig deeper and find Shaun. 

And, of course, Hancock is going with her. 

"What's in the Glowing Sea, again?" Deacon asks. "Besides, y'know, a whole mess of radiation."

The Survivor hefts her mini-gun. "Answers, hopefully."

"Ah. I'd think you'd have more to go by, since you're waltzing into a miles-wide, radioactive cesspool filled with countless horrors."

Needless to say, I do not approve of Hancock going along. 

"Shut up, Deacon. I know what I'm doing." I think she meant to sound lighthearted, but it came out a little snippy. 

"Right." Deacon has the decency to look scorned. "Sorry, Boss."

She sighs. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to–"

Deacon holds up a hand, cutting her off. "It's okay. I get that this is super stressful for you. I can only imagine."

"Yeah..." 

Hancock clears his throat. "So, one more time, what exactly are we doing? Just so everyone's clear." He throws a pointed look at Deacon.

"Oh," the Survivor says. "So, we're going to, um, the Glowing Sea to find an ex-Institute scientist named Virgil. We... I really hope we find him. He's really our only chance of getting into the Institute."

"We'll find him," Hancock assures. I'm positive that if she weren't in that power armor, he'd have her wrapped up in the second-safest hug she'd ever receive. 

The Survivor looks down at him. I imagine her smiling under that helmet. "Let's get going, then."

"Wait," I say, and she looks at me. "When should we expect you guys back?"

"Good question. I'd say, give us at least two weeks. If you don't see us or hear about us–well... you know."

I swallow hard, not wanting to think about the alternative. "Right."

"Okay. So... Let's head out, John."

With that, they walk to the road and head for the bridge out of Sanctuary. 

I bite my lip, then yell, "Hancock!"

He spins around, eyes wide. "Yeah, Bug?"

I run toward him and wrap my arms around him when I get there. "God, please, _please_ be careful."

Hancock presses a hand against my back. "I will, kid. You haven't seen the last of me, I promise."

A frightened little laugh releases into the ruffles of his shirt. "I hope that doesn't end up a lie."

"Ask Deacon. I'm sure he'll be able to tell you if it's the truth or not."

I step back, my eyes feeling very dry. The feeling you get before they get overly wet. "Yeah, I'll do that."

"Just remember that... that I love you, kiddo."

 _Oh, God._

"I-I love you, too," I stutter, a tear slipping down my face.

He smiles at me, then looks to the Survivor, who waits patiently several yards away, her back politely turned to us. When he looks back at me, he says, "I'll see you soon, okay?" 

I nod. "Okay."

After another hug, he goes to join her, and they leave Sanctuary. 

I sit down where I am on the curb and hug my knees, watching them go.

"Butterfly," Deacon says once they're out of sight. 

"What?"

"Get up. We're gonna get some whiskey in you."

"I'm good."

Hands shove themselves under my armpits and haul me up. He turns me around to face him. "C'mon. We'll go down to the drive-in. Didn't they set up a bar down there, Mac?"

"Yeah, I heard they did," MacCready says, nodding. 

"I don't feel like–," I start.

Deacon claps a hand over my mouth. "Say no more. We're going. Mac, grab her legs."

I slap Deacon's hand away–briefly wondering when the hell he washed it last–and shoot MacCready a warning look. "Don't you dare."

"Then, walk yourself down to the drive-in," Deacon suggests, "so we don't have to carry you."

I throw him a scowl. "Don't you have Railroad business to do?"

Deacon stares at me–at least, I think he's staring at me–for a very long time before he says, "Shit, you're right. I should probably check in with HQ. I'll have to reschedule that whiskey."

"Fine with me," I say. "How about December thirty-second?"

"Har, har, har."

MacCready flicks Deacon's shoulder. "Shut up."

Deacon raises an eyebrow at the merc. "Sorry, MacSmoochy."

"What?"

I freeze. I forgot that Deacon saw us kiss.

"You know...," Deacon says, wiggling his eyebrows. 

MacCready goes red. "You–you saw that?"

Deacon's smirk widens to a smile. 

"Deacon."

The smile widens to a grin. 

"Oh, my God." MacCready covers his face with both hands. "Are you serious?"

Deacon laughs, clapping MacCready on the shoulder. "Aww. It's cute, man. Nothing to be embarrassed about." He clasps his hands together, pushing his knees together and turning his foot so the toe of his sneaker touches the ground. "There's nothing quite like your first love."

MacCready drops his hands to glare at Deacon. Probably because Deacon doesn't know about Lucy. 

"Do you ever shut your mouth?" I ask Deacon.

"I've been known to, occasionally," he replies. 

"Is that a lie?" MacCready asks. 

He only laughs.

 

MacCready and I sit side-by-side at the concession stand counter, behind which two of the settlers have set up a bar. It seems to be a happening spot, since both sides and a couple of picnic tables are filled up. 

When we receive our drinks, MacCready says, "Let's play a game."

I eye him warily. "What kind of game?"

"A drinking game."

" _Duh_. I mean, what game?"

"How about we ask each other questions, and if your answer is yes, you take a drink. But, if you answer 'no,' the asker takes a drink. Oh, and you can't ask the same question right after it's been asked."

I think it over for a moment. Drinking with MacCready last time we were here _was_ pretty fun. "Sounds easy enough. Who starts?"

"I'll let you start."

"Okay... Ever killed someone?"

His mouth pops open to argue, but he takes a drink before he does. "So, you're gonna play dirty, huh."

I shrug, resisting a grin. 

"Alright. Hmm. Ever killed someone specifically for caps?"

"No, actually."

"Really?"

I nod. 

He purses his lips, then takes a swig from his glass. "Your turn."

"Ever had sex?"

He takes another drink. "You're the worst," he laughs, pushing his elbow into my side. "Ever crapped yourself?"

"Oh, my God, really?"

"Answer it."

Reluctantly, I drink. 

He hoots, slapping his hand down on the counter. 

"Shut up," I say, scowling at him. "Ever had sex with a guy?"

He answers, "Drink."

I do. 

"Ever done any chems?"

"Drink again." I think over my next question while he takes a sip, his eyebrows up. "Have you ever crapped yourself?"

He snorts and drinks again. "Since we're playing dirty... Have _you_ ever had sex with a guy... or girl?"

My face goes hot. "Drink."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Just drink, Mac."

"You're serious."

"Yup. Drink."

He does, keeping his eyes on me over the edge of his glass. "So, nobody? Ever? Not even a little?"

"How do you have sex 'a little'?"

He raises his eyebrows and lifts his hands. He makes a circle with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and sticks out the forefinger of his right hand–then starts to bring them closer together. 

I slap his right hand before he can demonstrate. "Point taken, but no. Not even a little."

"Wow," he says. 

"Yeah. Anyway." I tap my fingers against the side of my jaw, scanning the bottles of liquor behind the counter, as if they hold ideas for questions. "Would you ever have sex with a guy?"

Meekly, he takes a drink.

"Nice."

"Alright, alright. Uh..." A mischievous glint appears in his eye. "Have you ever had dirty thoughts about me?"

My face feels like it's going to melt off as I take a drink. 

"Oh, really?" He wiggles his eyebrows. 

"I'm going to ask you the same thing on my next turn," I tell him, and that shuts him up. "Have you ever lied to me?"

He hesitates, then takes a drink. 

I just nod. It isn't surprising in the least; everyone lies.

"Do you miss the Mojave?" he asks. 

I have to think about that for much longer than necessary before finally saying, "Drink. Have you ever had dirty thoughts about _me_?"

His brow furrows as he lifts his glass to his lips. "That's not fair."

"You said the question can't be repeated on the same turn, right?"

His lips purse. 

"Exactly. Your turn."

"Hmm." He swirls the liquid in his glass, staring down at it. "Would you ever have sex with me?"

I choke on air and start coughing. A few people turn to look at me. 

"Christ, Bug," he says. "You could've just told me to take a drink."

I thump my fist against my chest a few times and eventually start to breathe normally. I quickly take a drink before letting my head fall onto my arm. 

"Was that a 'yes' drink or an 'I'm choking' drink?" he asks.

I inhale deeply and say, "Both."

"Oh," he says. Then: " _Oh_."

"I think I'm done playing," I say to the countertop.

"Yeah, I'm, uh, feeling a little..." He burps. "A little tipsy."

I throw my head back and laugh. "You call that a burp?" 

"What would you call it?" 

"Not a good burp."

He snickers. "Lay one on me, then."

I sit up straight and focus. I feel the buildup in my chest, and then I let a loud one loose. I actually get a bit of applause for it. Ego stroked, I keep going, trying to make each one louder and longer. 

MacCready full-on laughs, grabbing my arm to keep himself from falling off his stool. "Stop, stop! I can't–I can't breathe!"

I laugh, too, and then almost get pulled off my stool as he slides off his. 

"C'mon," he says, tugging my arm. 

"Where are we going?" I ask, following him away from the lights strung up around the bar. 

He holds his finger to his lips as he pulls me around the back of the building. "Shh." 

I blink up at him, though his face is hard to make out in the darkness. "Mac."

"Bug," he breathes, gently pressing my back to the wall. "Can I kiss you?"

I find myself nodding before he even finishes the question. He takes off his hat and tosses it into the grass–just before his lips meet mine. I sigh, letting my eyes fall shut, letting my hands grasp the rough material of his scarf to draw him closer to me. Our chests pressed together. Our hips pressed together. 

"Mac," I whisper when I turn my face away to catch some air. His lips don't take a break, though; they simply move to my neck. 

He hums questioningly against my skin. 

"What–?" _What is this?_

He lifts his face to look at me. "Something wrong?"

"Wh-what are we doing?" I ask. 

He blinks slowly. "I thought we were kissing."

"You–you know what I mean."

"Bug, I..." He sighs, his forehead touching mine. "I care about you so much. I know I probably shouldn't. I just..." He closes his eyes. "I don't even know your real name, and I'm in love with you."

If I wasn't standing against the wall, I'd have taken an involuntary step back. "You don't really mean that, r-right? You're drunk, right?"

He opens his eyes halfway. The corner of his mouth lifts. "I'm tipsy but not drunk."

I stare into his eyes for a few moments, then place my hand on the back of his head to bring his face back to mine. His hands slide from my hips, up, under my flannel shirt. They rest on my back, his fingers digging in just a little. 

"I love you," he murmurs against my lips. "I really do."

My heart hurls itself against my rib age, over and over. I kiss him harder, my fingers knotting in his hair. 

After a while, he pulls away with a low, throaty laugh. "You haven't said anything. Are you too drunk for that kind of confession?"

"I'm not drunk, either," I tell him, twirling a finger through the hair at the nape of his neck. "What do you want me to say?"

He considers me for a moment. "Your name."

"Bug" comes out of my mouth without hesitation. 

"Your real name, dingus," he chuckles. 

"You don't want to know it," I tell him. "It's really embarrassing."

"That just makes me want to know even more."

I stretch up on my toes to give him another kiss, long and slow. He swoons back into me, his hands slipping back down to my hips to pull them against his again. But, he doesn't let that distract him for too long.

"Please tell me," he whispers. 

I inhale deeply. "It's Beth. Beth Ursa Gecko."

"Beth..." He lifts one of his hands to hold the side of my face. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't kiss me, either. He just looks at me, a small smile curling his mouth. 

"I told you it was embarrassing," I say, hoping he doesn't feel the heat from my cheeks on his hand. 

He shakes his head. "It's beautiful."

"Oh, shut up."

"I'm serious."

"Well... thanks. But, don't start calling me Beth, alright? I'm still Bug."

"I got ya," he says, leaning down again. 

"Wait. I know what I want to say." And, he waits almost a full minute for me to work up the courage to say what he really wanted me to say before: "I love you, too."

He makes a tiny, pleased sound in the back of his throat. "You do?"

I look directly into his eyes. I feel a swell in my chest, a rush of raw emotion. I _love_ this dirty merc. "Yes, I do."

His smiles widens, and he kisses me once more.

* * *

MacCready stares into the scope, the barrel of his rifle just barely moving as he tracks his target. "Twenty caps says I can make a headshot."

"I'm not stupid enough to make that bet," I inform him. 

He grins and pulls the trigger. 

A few hundred yards away, the feral ghoul falls over, its head blasted off. The others scramble, searching for the source of the bullet. We're too far away for them to make the connection, though. 

"Can you clear the place from here?" I ask, staring into his binoculars. I glance over the fallen feral. Nasty. 

"Maybe." He cocks another round into the chamber. "Twenty caps says–"

"I am _not_ betting against you, Mac."

He looks over at me, where I lie on my stomach next to him. "How sweet."

I reach over and cuff the back of his head with my hand, knocking his hat off. I grab it and pull it on before he can let go of his rifle. "Don't ever call me 'sweet' again."

He ducks his head to laugh silently into the crook of his elbow. When he composes himself, he proceeds to shoot down the rest of the ferals, a broad smile on his face the whole time. 

The merc in love is quite the sight. Being the object of his affections is quite the feeling. 

Something bulbous and metallic catches my eye. I place my hand on MacCready's arm and hand him the binoculars. "You see that?"

He puts the binoculars up to his eyes, scans the area, and then locks onto what I'm looking at. "The Mr. Handy?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think it's friendly?"

"Hard to tell."

"Should I shoot it before we go down there?" 

"Hold off on that until we meet it," I say, pushing myself to my feet. 

Beside me, he follows suit. We head down to the settlement location suggested to us by Preston. MacCready strides ahead, his rifle lifted, his eyes alert. Before, his protectiveness irked me to no end–because it didn't make any sense. I was just some kid he met in Goodneighbor that he got stuck with. After his confession... well, it made a whole lot more sense, and now I don't mind it as much. 

"Clear," he says, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He turns to me, smiling as the Mr. Handy approaches us. "Good work."

"I didn't do anything," I say.

"You provided moral support, so thank you."

"Oh, right." I smile up at him, shading my eyes from the sun with my hand. "You're welcome."

"Heyyy," the Mr. Handy says when it gets to us. "How's it going?"

"Great," I reply. "How are you?"

"So chill, ahaaa."

"Awesome. You okay? Need anything?"

"Nahhh."

"Alright. See you around, then."

"Later, gators," the Mr. Handy says before hovering away. 

"Oh... my God," MacCready says with a scoff. Then, he breaks up into laughter, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. "Can robots get high?"

"I don't think so," I say with my own bout of giggles. "Somebody must've messed with his programming."

His laughter dies down enough for him to say, "Amazing. Let's check out the place." He holds his hand out to me, and I take it without hesitation. 

We wander around, peeking into the few haphazard houses before going to the big barn in the center of the place that holds a terminal, a workbench, a toolbox–and a feral ghoul.

"Oh, f–" MacCready reaches for his rifle just as the feral starts to charge at us.

I whip Peashooter out of the holster and pull the trigger. The shot rips its leg off at the knee, and it crumples, trying to crawl to us. 

"Nice save," MacCready says with a relieved sigh. 

I pull the trigger one more time, burying a bullet into its skull. "Thanks."

"Now you can't say you didn't help." He offers me a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

I scoff. "Just help me find stuff for the beacon, will ya? There was a bunch of scrap in that one house to the west. Could you bring that here, please?"

"Sure thing." He leans down and gives me a quick kiss. "Be right back."

"Don't talk to strangers!" I call after him. 

"Don't tell me what to do!" he calls over his shoulder. 

I can't help myself; I grin as I turn to the workbench, relishing the feeling of butterflies in my stomach. 

Once the beacon has been constructed and powered up, MacCready and I kick back on one of the houses' porches with a couple of warm Nuka-Colas. 

"How long do you think it'll take for someone to show up?" he asks, using his pocketknife to pry the caps off the bottles. He hands one cap to me and holds on to the other. 

I close my fingers around the cap. "It didn't take long at the drive-in. Shouldn't take long here, either." 

"I sure hope not." He lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a gulp. "I'm ready to take on the next settlement."

Grinning, I say, "Preston would be so proud to hear you say that."

MacCready gives me a look. "Hey, I'm still getting paid for all this. Are _you_?"

I stop smiling, because I hadn't thought of that. "Shit."

He smirks.

"Well, if we're together, what's yours is mine, right?"

He stops smirking. "I didn't agree to that."

I laugh. "Too late."

He flicks his bottle cap at me, and it hits me in the cheek. "What's mine is yours, _right_?"

"You little shit!" I lean over and punch him in the arm. 

He swats at my hand but misses. "Hey, hands off the merchandise!" 

"'Merchandise,'" I scoff. "You're so conceited."

"I'm anything but," he counters. "I just value the physical attributes I have that are actually nice. My rippling biceps are one of them. Besides, if you're calling anyone conceited"–he points off to our left, where a sunglasses-wearing figure has appeared, walking toward us–"it should be him."

"Hey, guys!" Deacon hollers, which elicits a wet snarl from a feral we must have missed. He shrieks and bolts toward us, not stopping until he's hiding behind my chair. 

I lift Peashooter and pull on the trigger until the feral stops moving. I look over my shoulder at Deacon. "Where's your shotgun?"

"Oh, this thing?" Deacon pulls the gun from his back. He gives an embarrassed laugh. "Funny story. You see, last night, I was on my way here when a woman came out of the woods and asked me if I'd help her hunt down some dinner." He leans his elbow against the back of my chair, giving me a start when it tips back into two legs. "So–the outstanding gentleman that I am–I went with her, helped her track a herd of radstags halfway to Diamond City before she said, 'Wow, you sure are handsome,' and I said, 'Gee, you're not so bad-looking yourself.' We made sweet love under the light of the full moon. When I woke up, she was gone, and she'd stolen all my ammo. Can you believe that?"

MacCready and I share a look, and then I say, "One problem with that story, Deac."

"What's that, Butterfly?"

"There was a new moon last night."

"Bah! Foiled again. Anyway, now that I've helped you clear out all the ferals, what's next?"

I stifle a laugh as MacCready says, "We wait for new settlers to show up."

"That sounds insanely boring. Let's go shoot somethin'."

"I thought the forest lady took all your ammo," I say. 

Deacon reaches into the pocket of his black slacks and pulls out a few shotgun shells. "You foiled my story, remember?"

I roll my eyes at him as he lets my chair fall back onto four legs. "You're an idiot."

He deposits the shells into his pocket and clutches his heart dramatically. "You wound me." 

"You'll live." I push myself out of the chair, finish off my Nuka-Cola, and set the bottle on the railing. "Let's straighten up a little before anyone shows up."

"Straighten up?" MacCready asks, getting to his feet as well. 

"I mean, we should pull the feral corpses off the lot."

"Not it!" Deacon shouts. 

I turn to him and place my hands on my hips. "You came to help, didn't you?" 

He makes a face. "Not _that_ kind of help."

"What kind of help, then?" 

"I figured I'd spruce up the place by standing around and looking pretty. I think I'm doing a pretty good job so far."

MacCready and I share another look before dissolving into childlike giggles. 

"What's so funny?" Deacon demands. 

"Nothing, nothing," I say with a dismissive wave. "Help me drag that feral I saved you from over to those bushes, will ya? Mac, get started on the barn."

"Don't tell me what to do," MacCready says, even as he heads toward the barn. 

"You guys are too cute," Deacon comments as he and I head for the feral that scared him a few minutes ago. 

"Yeah, we're adorable. Grab that gnarly hand, will ya?"

He does. "Ew, ew, ew!"

I grab the other arm, and we quickly drag the feral out of sight. 

Deacon sprints a few yards away, shivers, and wrings his hands. "That was terrible! I don't wanna do that ever again!"

"You only gotta do it three more times. C'mon." I start for the next feral, resisting the urge to react the same way he did. 

Once the dirty work has been taken care of, we sit back down on the porch. Deacon produces a deck of cards from his backpack, and we play for a couple hours until a few settlers show up. I give them a few ideas on where to start, and they get to work without question. 

"Settlement established," I proclaim, turning to the men. "Let's get back to Sanctuary and tell Preston we're finished here."


	10. Chapter 10

The Survivor and Hancock don't come back for two weeks, just like they'd warned. When they do show up with a guest in tow, MacCready and I are passing his rifle back and forth at the Red Rocket, having a shooting contest with Deacon as our judge. According to Deacon, I'm a master marksman, and MacCready is a novice–even though MacCready hasn't missed a target, and I've missed several. 

I'm about to aim at an empty tin can when a raspy voice calls out, "Bug!"

I whirl around with MacCready's rifle up in front of me. 

Hancock throws his hands into the air with a surprised laugh. "Don't shoot! I'm not feral yet."

I thrust the rifle into MacCready's hands and run right at the ghoul, not stopping until we collide. 

Hancock's arms wrap around me. "Missed me?"

"A little," I say into his chest before pulling away. "You guys okay? No one's hurt?"

"We're perfect," he says. "Ain't that right, Viv?"

"Right," the Survivor says with a smile. Beside her stands a scrawny man with a strange hat that looks like an old aviator's cap with a flashlight strapped to the left side of it and pair of goggles pushed up over his forehead. "So, guys, this is Tinker Tom. He's with the Railroad, and he's here to help us build a–" She turns to Tinker Tom. "What's it called again, Tinker?"

Tinker clasps his hands together and opens his mouth to explain, but then his eyes land on Deacon. "Deacon, my man!" He hesitates. "Is that you?"

"Sure is, Tinker Tots," Deacon says with a wide grin. 

"How've you been?"

"Pretty decent, my dude," Deacon says, stepping forward to embrace the smaller man. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

"Almost a month! We never know when to scratch out your name on the board, man."

"Then, don't scratch it, Tinker. I _always_ come back."

"Beautiful reunion and all," the Survivor interrupts, "but we have a lot of work to do, guys."

"Right," Tinker says with an easy nod. "So, what we're building is a signal intercepter for the Institute's relay."

"What?" MacCready and I say simultaneously. 

"Oh, we should probably fill you in on what happened in the Glowing Sea first," the Survivor says. "Let's get some food cooking, and I'll tell you guys all about it."

As Hancock and I start on a mole rat stew at the cooking station, the Survivor tells us what happened. They met Virgil, but it turns out he's a super mutant. I open my mouth to ask about that–since all the super mutants around here aren't very good conversationalists–but Hancock shushes me and gestures for the Survivor to continue. 

Virgil told them that Coursers–synths working for the Institute to bring back escaped synths–have a chip implanted in their head that allow them to teleport to and from the Institute. The Survivor and Hancock had to track down a Courser and take his chip. They managed to do so, mostly unscathed. Only Hancock suffered from a skinned knee, which he valiantly brushed off as minor. They took the chip to the Railroad, where Tinker–the Railroad's version of Sturges–was able to figure out how to build a signal intercepter. 

"So, that's where we are right now," the Survivor finishes. "I'm going to teleport into the Institute."

"Who's going with you?" is MacCready's first question. 

The Survivor gives him a tired smile. "I have to go alone."

I notice Hancock's grip on the wooden spoon tighten. 

"Why?" MacCready prods. 

"Several reasons," Tinker says. "One, the platform will only be able to hold one person. Two, we don't know if the thing we're going to build will even work on more than one person at a time–which brings us to three: The whole rig is likely to fry up after it's been used. So, we're looking at a one-shot deal."

Hancock's stirring becomes aggressive.

"Well, how the fu–heck are you supposed to get back?" MacCready demands. 

"Mac, calm down," the Survivor says, reaching over to place a hand on his arm. "I'll be okay. Just trust me, alright?"

MacCready inhales deeply and nods once. 

"Besides," she continues, "I feel like I should go alone, anyway. There's no telling what I'm walking into, and one of my many goals is to keep you guys safe."

This woman was frozen for two hundred years and now travels the Commonwealth with us to help literally everyone else while also trying to find the son that was taken from her. I get up from my seat next to Hancock and go to her, winding my arms around her neck. 

She inhales sharply before hugging me back. "You okay, Bug?"

"Am _I_ okay?" I hug her tighter, closing my eyes. She smells like dirt, sweat, and gun oil. She smells like she was made in the wasteland. In a way, I guess she was. "I'm great, Sole."

* * *

Since I weigh the least out of all the Survivor's friends and would likely cause the least structural damage–if any–climbing the damn signal interceptor, I find myself perched on the small, circular platform at the top of it with a screwdriver in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other. When they're not bickering, Sturges and Tinker supervise from below. MacCready stands almost directly under me. Probably to try to catch me if I fall, which would just end up injuring us both, but I appreciate the thought. Deacon dragged a patio chair in front of one of the nearby houses to watch and provide unwanted commentary, instead of doing something useful–like _helping_.

"Okay, Bug," Sturges says from the ground, about fifteen feet below me, "That wire that's wigglin' around up there? I just need you to tape down. You see it?"

"Uh..." I look slowly around me, not wanting to lose my footing and fall to my death. "No? What wire?"

"It's to your left," Tinker calls, his hand cupped around the side of his mouth for volume. "It's the red one."

"Red," Deacon says. "Y'know. The opposite of blue."

"That's a big help, guys, since it's definitely _not_ the only red one!" I yell at them. 

"Bug," MacCready says from below me. 

I look down at him, my hands spread in a _what now?_ gesture. 

He points at one of the three curved columns of metal, wires, and tubes. "About a foot down from your position. See it?"

I squint where he's pointing. I'm completely missing it. "Maybe I wasn't the best person for this job, guys."

"It's okay, Bug," Sturges assures. "The Survivor ain't leavin' 'til mornin', anyway, so just take your time. There's no rush."

"Well, it's nearly dinnertime," Deacon mentions, "so maybe rush a little."

"You can eat without us," MacCready points out. 

"And miss the show? I don't think so, pal."

Annoyed, I shift from crouching to kneeling on the small, circular platform. I hook my fingers around the edge of the platform and lean down. My eyes dart over the mess of wires and tubes, searching hard for the stray. 

"I should climb up there," I hear Deacon say. 

"Hm, maybe," Tinker says. 

"Deacon weighs twice as much as Bug," Sturges says. I catch him looking over at Deacon, who sits slumped in his chair. He adds, "If not more."

"I resent that!" Deacon hollers. 

I turn my face and snicker into my upper arm. 

"Hush up, you!"

"Make me!" I shout at him. 

"Don't test me, child."

I snort–and then gasp. "Got it!" I crow, triumphantly grabbing hold of the blasted red wire. "Fuck, yeah!" I rip a piece of duct tape off with my teeth and slap it over the wire. 

"Mac, what do you see in Bug?" Deacon asks. "Serious question."

I flip him my middle finger. He laughs as I begin the climb down. Five or so feet from the ground, I jump, landing on my feet. 

"That was horrible, and I don't ever want to do that again," I say, handing my screwdriver to Tinker and the duct tape to Sturges. 

"Hopefully, we won't have to build one of these again," Sturges says, sticking his hand through the roll of tape to wear it as a clunky bracelet. He turns to Tinker. "Come help me with the programming, will ya?"

"So bossy!" Nonetheless, Tinker tucks the screwdriver into his back pocket and joins Sturges at the control console they spent the day building a few days ago. 

I look at MacCready. "Hungry?"

"Starved!" Deacon exclaims before MacCready can get a word out. "I'm thinking grilled radstag. What do you guys think?"

"Are _you_ cooking?" MacCready asks, raising an eyebrow. 

"Sure."

"I'll pass." 

Laughing, I take MacCready by the arm and lead him out of Sanctuary, toward the Red Rocket, with Deacon on our heels.

* * *

I watch Hancock and the Survivor surreptitiously from my place beside the control console. He helps her zip up a leather jacket over her vault suit before leaning down and placing a tender kiss on her forehead. 

They are too fucking cute. I'm so happy for them. 

MacCready meets me at the console and proffers a box of potato crisps. I look up at him and smile as I stick my hand in the box. I'm so happy for us, too. 

"Sturges, my man, that's supposed to be a seven," Tinker says, pressing a slender finger to the lower left hand corner of the console's screen. 

"What?" Sturges leans in to get a closer look. "Are you sure?"

"Positive, positive. If we don't change it, only _half_ of the Survivor's gonna show up at the Institute."

"Okay, okay," Struges says, setting his hands on the keyboard. "Keep your shirt on."

"Which half?" I ask through a mouthful of crisps. 

The men don't laugh. MacCready does.

"Hey, guys?" 

We all turn at the sound of the Survivor's voice. 

She stands with Hancock by the signal interceptor, her hands in her jacket pockets. "Almost ready?"

"Just a few tweaks!" Tinker says, then leans toward Sturges to stage-whisper, "Hurry the hell up, dude."

Sturges raises an eyebrow at the other handyman. "Weren't you just lecturing about cutting her in half by accident?" 

"Hey, eyes on the keyboard."

MacCready shakes his head, then looks at me. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say. "You?"

He half-frowns. "I'm a little worried."

Shit. So am I. 

He steps slightly in front of me, shielding the view of his hand reaching for mine. 

"Alright, Sole!" Sturges calls out after a few more minutes of arguing with Tinker. "Looks like we're in business."

"Step onto the platform whenever you're ready," Tinker adds.

I look back to the Survivor. She looks calm, collected. Normal. Not like she's about to delve into the belly of one of the Commonwealth's beasts. She turns back to Hancock, who pulls her into an embrace. 

Dogmeat trots up to them from seemingly nowhere and buries his nose into the Survivor's side. 

She bends down to scratch the top of his head and give him a kiss. When she straightens, she looks over at MacCready and me. "You guys gonna be okay?"

"When have we ever not been okay?" I ask. I don't go in for a goodbye hug because I already had mine after breakfast, and I don't think I'd let go of her if I hugged her again. 

She gives me a look. 

My cheeks get hot. "Point taken."

"That won't happen again," MacCready assures her, and his fingers tighten around mine. 

The Survivor points a finger at him. "It better not." She looks around, as if noticing something she hadn't before. "Where's Deacon?"

As if on cue, Deacon comes sprinting down the road, his flannel shirt buttoned wrong and only halfway, his wig lopsided. "Present! Sorry!" He aims for the Survivor and Hancock. "It's _way_ too fuckin' early. I overslept." Yawning, he holds his hand out to her, but she ignores that and pulls him in for a hug. 

"Be good while I'm gone, okay?" she says. 

"Jeez, okay, Mom," he says, though he circles his palm on her back, underneath the weight of her hunting rifle, before stepping back. "Good luck in there, Boss. Weed out all their secrets for us, yeah?"

"I'll do my best." 

Deacon retreats to stand with the rest of us at the console. 

The Survivor points at MacCready again. "Come give me a hug, dammit."

"Seriously?" MacCready says. 

"Seriously."

"She gives great hugs," Hancock says as if to convince the merc. 

MacCready rolls his eyes, but he goes to give her a one-armed hug. She wraps both arms around him for a few moments and lets go. 

Turning to Hancock yet again, she plucks a stray string from his coat and says, "You be good, too."

"I'll try," Hancock says, and removes his hat to kiss her. 

"Aww," Deacon says, clasping his hands together near his heart.

My chest starts hurting when she breaks away from Hancock and steps onto the platform. Hancock backs away, standing halfway between us and her. 

"Alright, Tinker, work your magic," Sturges says, stepping aside from the keyboard. 

Tinker takes Sturges's place, lacing his fingers and cracking his knuckles. "Don't blink, or you might miss it."

I keep my eyes on the Survivor, who honestly still looks fine. I don't blink. 

The whole rig lights up with blue lightning that spikes the air around it. The rig shudders, and a big black tube near the top of the structure starts waving around. Only when Tinker says, "Uh-oh" does the Survivor show any concern. 

"Uh-oh?" she echoes, her eyebrows pulled together. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing!" But, Tinker looks at Sturges and says, "We probably should've had Bug tape that down, too."

I bite down on my lip to keep myself from yelling at them. MacCready squeezes my hand.

"Throw the switch, throw the switch!" Tinker barks at Sturges, who fumbles for whatever switch Tinker's referring to. 

The rig shudders again, a bright zap of blue lightning–and she's gone. 

We all stare at the place where she stood for a really long time before Tinker says, "Well, at least _all_ of her is gone."

"Did she make it?" MacCready asks them, keeping his gaze on the steaming rig. 

"No way to know until she finds her way back to us," Sturges says. "In the meantime, I guess we'll just go about our usual business."

I look at Hancock, who is wringing the life out of his hat. I go to him and loop my arm around his. 

He looks down at me, worry evident in his black eyes. "You think she'll be okay?"

"I'm sure she will. She's the Sole Survivor, after all." As I say it, I try to convince myself that I'm right. It doesn't work.

"You're right." He sighs. "I need a drink."

"Have you seen her stash of booze at the Red Rocket? It's massive."

He lets loose a chuckle. "Have you seen her stash of cat paintings? That's massive, too."

"Oh, my God, what?" Deacon interjects, stumbling in his haste to grab onto Hancock's shoulder. "You gotta show us."

"I'll show ya. It's hilarious."

* * *

The wait is killing me. Three days after the Survivor's departure, I pace around the front room of the Red Rocket, my eyes roaming over the cracked floor tiles, the peeling wallpaper. Outside, Dogmeat snuffles around the ground before having a seat and taking on a thousand-mile stare in the direction of Sanctuary. 

Maybe the Institute caught her. Yeah, they probably did. Most likely. I groan inwardly, picturing her sitting in a jail cell, waiting for certain death. Hancock would go completely bonkers, as opposed to the slightly bonkers he is now. 

MacCready joins me from the back room, where he, Hancock, and Deacon have been playing cards. "Hey. You alright?"

"You think she's okay?" I ask, looking up at him. 

"Yeah, of course," he says, picking at the wallpaper. "I mean, she's the Survivor. She'll make it back to us all right." He squeezes my shoulder. "C'mon. Have a drink with us. Hancock dug up some moonshine from the Survivor's stash that'll knock your socks off."

I have to admit, that sounds pretty good. I follow him to the table behind the counter, where the Survivor put a small, square table with one slightly short leg, and a few chairs. 

Hancock and Deacon look up as we sit. 

"Well, well," the ghoul says. "Ready to get absolutely smashed?" He doesn't appear to be worried, but I know he is. He loves the Survivor more than anything. More than Goodneighbor, even. Maybe even more than me.

"No, no, no," I say as he deftly shuffles the cards. "Just one drink, one game, and then I'm going to hang out with Dogmeat." He deals the cards, and I think we're playing poker. I don't know how to play poker, though. 

Hancock gives a raspy laugh. "The dog's better company than us, apparently."

Deacon shrugs, a wry smile on his face as he studies his cards. "Certainly nicer than us, Mr. Mayor."

"You ever seen that puppy in action, though? I saw him rip a raider's throat out once."

"You ever seen the Survivor in action? I saw her rip a raider's throat out once."

Hancock laughs again–just as Dogmeat howls outside, followed by barking. 

I jump, my hand immediately going to Peashooter. The men look up from their cards. 

"Huh. That doesn't sound quite right," Hancock says. His eyes flick to me. "You wanna go see what the deal is?"

I get up from the table and slowly make my way to the front room. Dogmeat is facing west, toward Sanctuary. "Dogmeat," I call, and he turns to look at me, head cocked to the side. "What is it, boy?"

He barks in response, then trots toward the road to Sanctuary. He whines. 

"Guys!" I yell. 

Deacon, Hancock, and MacCready run out, guns out and ready to shoot something. 

"I think she's back," I say, nodding at Dogmeat, who is waiting impatiently on the road. 

"Well, let's fucking go, then," Hancock says, returning his shotgun to the holster on his back. 

The five of us make our way to the settlement. After crossing the bridge, we see a crowd of settlers standing by the burned-out machinery that was the relay. Over the tops of thirty or so heads, I can just barely see the top of the Survivor's blond head. 

Hancock breaks into a run at the sight of the crowd and shoves people out of his way to get to her. 

The Survivor looks unharmed. She even smiles at Hancock as he approaches her. He grabs her face and kisses her–and I look away as Dogmeat bolts toward his master. 

MacCready clears his throat. "Gee. He sure missed her, huh? How long's she been gone? Three days?"

"Yeah, about," I reply. "What do you expect, though? We didn't even know if she'd come back. He was worried about her."

"MacCready! Bug!" the Survivor calls out. I look at her, her blond hair shining in the evening sun. She moves with Hancock out of the throng, shaking outstretched hands along the way. They're so happy to see her. I don't blame them; she's pretty much their savior. Dogmeat trots along behind them, his tail wagging double-time. 

"Hey!" MacCready calls back, jogging to meet her halfway. I follow him, a little slower. 

"How'd you guys make out? Everything went okay?" she asks, looking between MacCready, Deacon, and me. 

"We should ask you that," Deacon says with a laugh. "How was the Institute?"

Her smile falters just long enough for me to notice it. "It was alright. Got done what I was supposed to get done for Tinker Tom. I gotta get down to the HQ, though, to tell Desdemona how it went. Bug? Mac?" She looks at me. "Would you come with Deacon and me?"

"Y-yeah," I reply, a little surprised. I've never been directly inside the Railroad HQ.

"Uh, okay," MacCready says, just as confused as I am. 

"Oh! I should probably get my power armor first. Preston just told me about some raiders causing trouble over at the drive-in." She lifts her left arm, the one with the giant, ancient Pip-Boy clung to it and clicks the dial a few times. She looks back up at MacCready and me. "You don't mind dealing with raiders, do you? I can ask Hancock to come instead."

"I'd follow you into Hell," Hancock says, and the Survivor gives him a smile and a head-shake. 

"It's no problem," I say to her. Not for the first time, I see that she is stretched way too thin. Everyone's got problems, and everyone wants her to solve them. And, the angel that she is, she tries her best to help them. 

"Oh, Dogmeat, too," she adds, remembering her loyal canine companion. She crouches to give the dog a kiss on the top of his head. "You, my friend, need a bath. First, the drive-in!" She pauses. "Wait. First, my armor. Be right back." She runs into the settlement, where the workbenches and her power armor station are kept. Dogmeat follows her.

MacCready looks at Hancock. "She's alright, then."

"She sure is," Hancock says, watching the Survivor go. 

The Survivor comes back with heavy, spring-loaded steps. In her hands, she carries her mini-gun. "C'mon, guys." 

With a final wave at the crowd, she sets off with Deacon, MacCready, Dogmeat, and myself at her heels.

* * *

The drive-in looks deserted when we get there, moving past the dilapidated chain-link fencing. The Survivor takes the lead, as always, gesturing for us to keep our distance. Hancock keeps his eyes on her as she heads into the smattering of shacks. MacCready and I scan the surrounding land, keeping our eyes out for any suspicious characters. 

"Hello?" I hear the Survivor say from the small pond in the center of the drive-in. Even from here, I can hear the hum of the generator that powers the giant water purifier. "Is anyone here?"

"Here, Blue!" Piper pops up from behind the counter of the concession stand. 

Surprised, MacCready aims his rifle at her, his finger on the trigger.

Piper's eyes widen, her hands coming up near her head. "Easy, killer. I'm harmless. Mostly."

With a relieved sigh, MacCready lowers his weapon. "You scared the crap outta me."

"Oh, sorry, Mac." Piper's eyes land on me. "Hey, Bug!"

"Hey, Piper," I say with a wave. It's been a while since I've seen her. 

Piper smiles at me, then looks away from us as the Survivor rejoins us near the concession stand. 

"Piper, good to see you're okay," the Survivor says as Piper slides over the counter. "Where is everyone?"

"Hiding," Piper replies. "But, more importantly, how was the Institute?"

"I'm just here for the raiders, Piper."

"Oh, right." Piper looks slightly dejected, but she points southwest. "They've set up camp a half-mile or so up that way. I've been scouting around over there. Maybe ten of 'em, but there's only so much we can do. Didn't want to send anybody out without asking you first."

"Good call. Any casualties?"

"Just one. Poor Lori kicked the bucket early this morning."

"Dammit. Alright. We'll head out there. Deacon, would you stay here and keep watch with Piper? We're gonna go deal with those baddies."

Deacon nods once, then goes to stand with Piper. I overhear them discussing how to best set up surveillance until the Survivor comes back.

"Let's go, guys," the Survivor says, aiming southwestward. 

"Should we wait until morning?" MacCready asks, even as he follows her. "It's getting dark pretty quick." 

"No point. We've taken out more in less light, haven't we?"

"Good point." MacCready looks at me and shakes his head. Without saying a word, he's told me the Survivor is batshit crazy–which I kind of already knew.

Dogmeat runs ahead of the Survivor, scouting out the route before we tromp through. Just as Piper said, about half a mile away lies the raider camp. Already, they have headless bodies strung up around in the trees. The sight of it makes me sick. 

We crouch down in a patch of scraggly bushes. 

"So, how should we play this?" the Survivor inquires. "With guns blazing? Or, you guys pick 'em off from a distance?" 

"Well, you're the one in the power armor," MacCready says, shifting onto one knee. "So, a mix of both."

"I like the way you think." With that, the Survivor–ever accompanied by Dogmeat–charges out of the bushes and into the camp, the _ratatat_ of the mini-gun rattling my eardrums. 

From here, MacCready and I choose our targets and carefully aim, so as not to further damage her armor. 

Screams pierce the cool Commonwealth air for a few minutes–calls for help, pleas for life, one "Don't you die on me!"–and then there is silence. 

MacCready lowers his rifle, letting out the breath he's been holding to keep a steady aim. "Boom."

I let out a snort. 

Dogmeat gallops back to us, joyful as ever, even though his muzzle is drenched in blood. He slows his pace when he gets close and struts up to me. He cocks his head at me, as if to say, _You proud of me, or what?_

MacCready and I straighten as the Survivor stomps toward us. "Good work, guys."  
"Any time," I say. 

She looks up at the setting sun. "Let's get back to the drive-in and get me the hell out of this suit."


End file.
